Emma descended the narrow stairs cautiously.
Each step creaked beneath her weight, the old wood groaning as if protesting her presence. The deeper she went, the more certain she became that the house was holding its breath. It wasn't just quiet—it was expectant, like something just beyond her senses was watching, waiting.
The flame of the candle flickered in the draft, casting long, thin shadows across the walls.
Dust swirled in the golden light like disturbed memories. Emma's grip tightened around the candle holder. Her other hand brushed along the rough wall for balance, fingers sliding across uneven plaster and small cracks that felt strangely warm despite the chill.
The air below was thicker, more suffocating—like no one had been down here for decades.
It was a silence that wasn't empty but full—full of what had been left behind. It clung to her skin and hair, filled her lungs, made every breath a little shallower.
At the bottom of the stairs, she reached a narrow, arched corridor. The walls were stone, damp and cold.
Moss clung to the edges like veins, and a faint dripping echoed in the distance, steady and slow, as though marking time that had stopped long ago. She took a step forward, and that's when she saw them.
Spiral patterns were etched into the rocks, entwined like they were alive.
They curled and twisted along the walls, some small and subtle, others stretching nearly the height of the passage. The deeper she moved, the denser the spirals became. There was something hypnotic about them—something disturbingly organic in their design, as though they hadn't been carved, but had grown.
Her fingers tightened around the candle holder.
Her footsteps echoed softly in the corridor.
As she moved forward, the spirals grew denser.
She glanced back. The staircase had already disappeared into darkness. There was only forward now.
The air filled with a strange metallic scent—like blood and rust.
Emma's nose crinkled. The metallic tang coated her tongue. It reminded her of hospital corridors. Or something worse. Something ancient.
At the end of the passage, a low archway opened.
Her breath caught. The space ahead was darker than the corridor, the air colder. She approached the arch and paused, listening.
Silence.
Emma peeked in.
A small room stood before her, nearly empty.
At its center: a rotting, old wooden table.
The boards sagged in the middle. Dust blanketed everything, and in the corners of the room, cobwebs hung like draped fabric. But something sat on the table. Something out of place. Something untouched by time.
And on the table—
A journal.
Its leather cover was cracked and darkened with age.
Emma stepped closer and opened it.
The candlelight spilled across yellowed pages. The ink had faded, but not enough to hide what was written there. The handwriting was erratic, as if the author had written in panic—or possession. Some lines crossed out violently. But one thing repeated again and again, like a mantra burned into the paper.
The spiral.
And the same words repeated over and over:
"There is no way out."
She turned more pages.
Each one felt heavier than the last, like they resisted her fingers. Then she found it—a page that felt different.
One stood out.
A date: October 13, 1978
And beneath it:
"The house will not let go."
Emma shivered.
She didn't know why, but the words felt familiar. Like she'd heard them before—in a dream, maybe, or in the echo of her own thoughts. Her hand trembled.
The candle flame suddenly flared.
A burst of heat stung her skin.
And in the corners of the room—within the shadows—something stirred.
Something slow. Heavy.
She stepped back.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Something was coming toward her from the darkness.
Something not human.
The candle flickered once, then went out.