The letter arrived on a Monday.
Elliot almost didn’t open it. Bills and threats from creditors came regularly, shoved through his mail slot like a slap in the face. This envelope, though, stood out—thick, cream-colored, and stamped with an unfamiliar crest. The handwriting on the front was sharp and precise, spelling his name as though someone had carved it there. He slit it open with the edge of a key, curious despite himself. “Wintercroft Hall invites you to uncover the truth. A story you won’t forget. Your passage will be arranged.” No signature, no explanation. Just an address, and at the bottom, a postscript: “Some things refuse to stay buried.” Elliot tossed it onto the cluttered coffee table, next to an empty whiskey bottle. He tried not to think about it. Wintercroft Hall? It sounded like one of those haunted tourist traps rich people paid to renovate. But by Wednesday, he’d Googled it. By Friday, he was packing. The ferry rocked against the tide, the spray of saltwater biting against Elliot’s face. The captain, a man who looked like he’d stepped out of a maritime nightmare with weathered skin and a voice like gravel, barely spoke. “Wintercroft,” the man grunted when Elliot asked for confirmation. “Ain’t a place you wanna linger.” The island rose out of the mist like a broken tooth, jagged cliffs towering over the sea. At its peak stood the mansion. Wintercroft Hall looked as though it had been abandoned to rot, its gothic spires silhouetted against the graying sky. Elliot felt the first twinge of unease as he disembarked, his boots sinking into the damp earth. The others were already there—six of them, standing awkwardly near the entrance. A young woman with dark, calculating eyes glanced his way and then looked quickly away. A man in a tailored coat paced the gravel, his movements sharp and impatient. No one spoke. “Mr. Dorne?” A voice broke the silence, low and formal. A butler—straight-backed, pale as milk—motioned toward the open doors of the mansion. Inside, the air smelled of mildew and old wood. A grand staircase loomed ahead, its banisters lined with faded carvings of wolves and roses. Elliot took it all in, trying to quiet the voice in his head whispering, You shouldn’t have come. In the dining room, the strangers gathered. The long table was set with gleaming silverware, as though they were attending a banquet, but the chairs creaked under their weight. “Why are we here?” someone asked. Before anyone could answer, the door at the far end of the room opened. A wheelchair rolled into view, pushed by the butler. At first, Elliot didn’t see the figure in it. She was shrouded in shadow, small and frail. Then she raised her head, and her voice cut through the room like a blade. “Welcome to Wintercroft Hall,” said Vivienne Ashworth. Her voice, though weak, carried an edge of authority. “You are here because the truth always demands an audience.” Vivienne’s eyes scanned the room, sharp and knowing. “Before this is over, some of you will wish you’d stayed away.”For a moment, no one moved.Vivienne Ashworth sat slumped in her wheelchair, skeletal fingers draped over the armrests. She looked impossibly old, as if she’d crumble into dust at the slightest gust of wind. But her eyes—those pale, piercing eyes—moved over the group with disconcerting sharpness, as if she could see straight into their thoughts.“You’ve been brought here,” she said, her voice trembling but deliberate, “because the past always finds a way to surface. Even when we bury it, deep as we dare.”Elliot’s stomach twisted. He was good at spotting performance—an occupational hazard of chasing down stories for years—but there was something about Vivienne that didn’t feel staged. It felt raw. Real.Before anyone could respond, she motioned toward the butler, who handed her a small black box. Vivienne opened it, revealing seven folded pieces of paper.“One for each of you,” she said, her voice rasping like dry leaves. “Your past follows you here.”She extended a trembling hand, ho
The scream tore through Wintercroft Hall, sharp and full of terror.Elliot froze in the doorway, his fingers tightening around the brass candlestick. For a moment, the storm outside seemed to quiet, as if the house itself was holding its breath. Then the sound of frantic footsteps echoed down the hallway.He turned to see the auburn-haired woman from earlier—Emma, if he remembered her name right—running toward him. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with panic.“Someone’s dead,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “In the stairwell. There’s… there’s blood everywhere.”Elliot didn’t wait for more. He followed her down the hall, the cold air of the mansion biting at his skin. When they reached the grand staircase, the rest of the group had already gathered, standing in stunned silence.At the base of the staircase, sprawled awkwardly across the marble floor, was the body of the impatient man in the tailored coat. His head was twisted at an unnatural angle, and a dark pool of blood spread ou
The morning brought no comfort.The storm had lessened to a steady drizzle, but Wintercroft Hall remained shrouded in gloom. The lingering scent of damp wood and decay seeped into Elliot’s senses as he descended the grand staircase. The bloodstain from the previous night had been scrubbed away, but the memory of the body sprawled there was harder to erase.The group gathered in the dining room, their movements tense, their faces drawn. Breakfast had been laid out—perfectly arranged plates of fruit, toast, and eggs—but no one touched the food.“Did anyone sleep?” Emma asked, her voice breaking the uneasy silence.“I wouldn’t call it sleep,” muttered the man with glasses. He glanced toward the hallway, where the butler had disappeared moments before. “And I didn’t hear anything from Henry, either.”Elliot stirred his coffee, his thoughts elsewhere. The figure he’d seen in the hallway last night—it wasn’t just paranoia. He was sure of it.Vivienne’s note still sat in his pocket, crumpled
The darkness was suffocating.Elliot froze, the weight of the journal still in his hands. Around him, the others whispered nervously, their voices bouncing off the stone walls of the crypt. He could hear the shuffle of feet and feel the damp air pressing in from all sides.“Is someone there?” Emma’s voice was barely above a whisper.“No one move,” Elliot said sharply. He forced himself to breathe, trying to steady the panic clawing at his chest. The flickering bulb had gone out so suddenly, as if someone had deliberately cut it.And in the pitch black, Elliot felt it—a presence.A faint click echoed through the room, followed by a burst of light as the bulb sputtered back to life. The room reappeared around them, but it felt colder now, more oppressive.Elliot’s eyes darted toward the door, half expecting someone—or something—to be standing there. But the crypt was empty, save for the seven of them.“What the hell was that?” Madeleine snapped, her sharp voice breaking the silence.“No
The note in Elliot’s hand felt heavier than it should, the weight of its meaning pressing down on him like a vice.“One of you will be next before nightfall.”The silence in the dining room stretched unbearably thin, the words echoing in everyone’s mind. For the first time, Elliot truly saw fear in Madeleine’s sharp features, in Emma’s trembling hands, in the nervous glances Sam cast toward the shadows.“This has to stop,” Madeleine finally said, her voice firm but wavering at the edges. “We can’t just sit around waiting for whoever—or whatever—is doing this to pick us off.”“What do you suggest?” Sam asked, crossing his arms tightly. “We don’t even know who to trust.”“That’s not true,” Madeleine said, her gaze hardening as it landed on Elliot. “You’re the one holding all the notes, finding all the clues. For all we know, this is your game.”“Are you serious?” Elliot shot back. “You think I wanted to be stuck on a stormy island with strangers and a killer?”“I don’t know what you wan
The grandfather clock’s chimes echoed through the mansion, their deep resonance rattling something primal inside Elliot. Each strike felt like a countdown, a reminder that time was running out—and they were no closer to understanding who was behind the deadly game they had all been forced to play.The remaining group stood in the parlor, their faces pale, their nerves frayed. Lydia’s lifeless body had been moved to the crypt, though the image of her twisted form lingered in everyone’s minds. Elliot could see it in the way Emma kept wringing her hands, in the sharpness of Madeleine’s tone, in the way Sam kept glancing over his shoulder.“We can’t keep waiting for someone else to die,” Madeleine said, breaking the tense silence. Her arms were crossed, her expression fierce, but there was a tremor in her voice that betrayed her fear. “We need answers now.”“And how do you propose we do that?” Sam asked, his voice edging toward hysteria. “We don’t know who’s doing this. It could be any on
The hallway stretched long and dim, the flickering light casting jagged shadows along the walls. Elliot’s grip on the candlestick tightened as the figure stepped closer, their movements deliberate and unhurried.“You’ve done well to get this far,” the stranger said, their voice calm, almost conversational.Elliot’s throat tightened. There was something off about the way they spoke, as though they were rehearsing a part in a play.“Who are you?” Elliot asked, his voice low, steady.The stranger tilted their head, smiling faintly. “I suppose you could call me… the overseer.”“The overseer of what?” Elliot demanded.Their smile widened, but their eyes remained cold. “This,” they said simply, gesturing around them. “The judgment. The reckoning. Call it what you will.”Elliot’s pulse quickened. “So you’re the one behind this. The notes. The deaths. It’s you.”The stranger’s expression didn’t falter. “You’re quick to accuse, but I haven’t touched a single one of you. You’re doing this to yo
Elliot stared at Emma, her words hanging heavy in the damp, claustrophobic air of the hidden room.“Who?” he managed, his voice low and steady, though his heart pounded in his chest.“It’s Madeleine,” Emma whispered, her voice cracking. “We found her in the sitting room. She… she’s gone.”Elliot’s jaw tightened. Madeleine had been one of the most guarded among them, sharp-tongued and suspicious of everyone. He hadn’t liked her much, but the thought of her lifeless—just another casualty of this nightmare—sent a cold shiver down his spine.Emma’s trembling voice cut through his thoughts. “I can’t do this anymore, Elliot. We’re all going to die here, aren’t we?”He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “We’re not dying here. Not if we can figure out what’s going on.”Emma’s wide eyes met his, tears threatening to spill over. “And what if it doesn’t matter? What if they’re going to kill us anyway?”Elliot didn’t have an answer.The sitting room was colder than Elliot remembered, its once gr
Ethan hit the ground hard.He groaned, rolling onto his side, the air knocked from his lungs. His palms scraped against rough stone, and for a moment, everything was still—too still. No footsteps. No voices. Just the echo of his own ragged breathing in the vast, open space.He sat up slowly, blinking against the haze that clung to the air. The room or wherever he was was dimly lit, the walls pulsing faintly with an eerie, internal glow, like the inside of something breathing. The ground beneath him wasn’t smooth like the hallway above it was cracked, ancient, and etched with markings that pulsed beneath his hands when he touched them.He was alone.“Isla?” he called out, then louder, “Elliot?”No answer. His voice didn’t echo, like the space was swallowing sound as quickly as it could make it.He pushed himself to his feet, wincing. A fresh ache bloomed in his shoulder from the fall. The silence pressed around him like a second skin. He turned in a slow circle, searching for any sign
The doorknob turned.Ethan’s breath caught, his body locking up. Isla’s grip on his wrist tightened. Elliot took a step back, his face unreadable.The door didn’t creak. Didn’t groan.It simply opened.Silently.Smoothly.Like it had been waiting.A gust of cold air rushed past them, carrying the scent of something old and forgotten.Ethan’s stomach twisted.Because the space beyond the doorIt wasn’t just another room.It was something else.Blackness stretched endlessly ahead. A vast, open void where the walls, the floor everything just stopped.The air inside the doorway shimmered, like the surface of a lake disturbed by a single ripple.And at the center of it allA figure stood.Watching them.Ethan’s breath hitched.The figure was tall. Shadowed. Its features blurred, shifting like smoke, flickering between something human and something not.And yetHe knew it.Somehow, he knew it.It was him.But wrong.Elliot swore under his breath. Isla took a slow step forward, her knife rai
Ethan couldn’t breathe.The voice was right there, too close, the whisper curling into his ear like smoke.He spun around, heart slamming against his ribsBut there was nothing.Only darkness.“Who said that?” Isla’s voice was sharp, low.No answer.Elliot exhaled slowly. “Keep moving.”Ethan’s fists clenched. He could still feel the whisper against his skin, the lingering sensation of someone something standing just behind him.Watching.Waiting.But there was no time to hesitate. The darkness pressed in on all sides, thick as fog, and he could barely see Isla’s outline just ahead.So he forced himself forward.One step.Then another.But the feeling didn’t leave him.The presence was still there.Just out of reach.The corridor seemed endless.The air was damp, heavy with something rotten, and every step felt like it led them deeper into something they weren’t meant to find.The lanterns had gone out, but there was still light—a strange, pulsing glow from the cracks in the stone wal
The silence was unbearable.Ethan’s breath came in short, ragged gasps, his pulse still hammering from the encounter outside the door. Isla’s grip on the knife hadn’t loosened, her knuckles white. Elliot stood motionless, eyes locked on the door as if expecting it to move again.Nothing did.But the house had shifted.It was subtle almost imperceptible but Ethan felt it, like a change in air pressure before a storm. The shadows were darker now, stretching further, the walls seemed to breathe, as if the entire house had become something alive.And worseHe was certain the house was aware of them in a way it hadn’t been before.Elliot exhaled, breaking the tense stillness. “We can’t stay here.”Isla glanced at him sharply. “You think I don’t know that?”“There’s a way out,” Elliot said.Ethan looked up at him, throat still dry. “How do you know?”Elliot’s gaze flickered toward the bookshelf against the far wall. “Because I’ve been here before.”Silence.A slow, sinking feeling settled i
Ethan followed Elliot down the long hallway, his mind still spinning. The air around him felt heavier now, charged with something unseen. His pulse hadn’t slowed, his breath still uneven from what had just happened in the room.Tyler.His brother had been there. He had spoken to him.Or at least, something pretending to be his brother had.The thought made Ethan’s stomach twist violently.Because if the house could pull out memories twist them, shape them, make them real then what else could it do?They reached the grand staircase. Isla was waiting at the bottom, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She looked tense, like she could feel the shift in the air, the way the house was closing in around them.“You were in there too long,” she said, her voice sharp.Ethan barely heard her. His eyes flickered toward the massive chandelier overhead, the way the dim light barely reached the upper floors. Shadows pooled in the corners, stretching unnaturally. The house felt alive in a way it
Ethan couldn’t breathe.The room was spinning, the walls stretching and closing in at the same time. The shadows near the closet deepened, curling at the edges like ink bleeding into paper. The hand reaching through the gap trembled slightly, fingers flexing, waiting.Tyler.The name burned in Ethan’s chest, scraping against ribs that felt too tight, lungs that wouldn’t expand properly.This wasn’t real.It couldn’t be real.But he couldn’t look away.The hand moved again.“Why did you leave me?”The voice his brother’s voice was so soft, so broken, that Ethan felt something splinter inside him.He staggered forward before he could stop himself, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.“I didn’t,” he rasped. “I”But the words caught in his throat.Because he had.A memory surfaced, sharp and raw.Ethan was eleven. Tyler was seven. The storm had knocked out the power, plunging their small house into darkness. Their father had already disappeared for the night, leaving them alone.“S
Ethan moved slowly, each step cautious, controlled. The hallway stretched ahead of him, long and narrow, the walls pressing inward like the house was breathing around him. The air was thick too thick and it made every inhale feel heavier, like something unseen was pressing against his ribs.The whisper had stopped.But he had heard it.He wasn’t alone.He didn’t know how he knew that, but he did.The shadows flickered as he passed beneath the dim candlelight. The house was watching him now. Waiting.Then, without warningA door creaked open at the end of the hall.Ethan froze.The door hadn’t just opened.It had welcomed him.A sharp chill ran through his body. The air beyond the threshold was darker, thicker, like a void waiting to be stepped into. He couldn’t see what was inside just the faintest glimmer of something past the doorway, something half-hidden in the shadows.His heartbeat pounded in his ears.He knew somehow that if he walked through that door, something inside would b
Ethan sat by the fire, his hands still gripping the damp letter like it could anchor him to something solid. His breathing had slowed, but his eyes darted around the room, flicking to every shadow, every flickering candle. He wasn’t just cold he was aware.The house had taken hold.It always started like this. A creeping, crawling unease. A presence pressing just beyond the edges of awareness. The mind searching for a way to rationalize what it already knew, but wouldn’t yet accept.Elliot had seen it before.He leaned against the fireplace, arms crossed. Isla hovered near the door, her expression unreadable. She hadn’t said much since Ethan arrived. She was still shaken from her own encounter, still processing the weight of her memories clawing their way back to the surface.Ethan was next.The house would dig into him, same as it had with her. Same as it had with Elliot.The only question wasHow long would it take before Ethan stopped fighting?And how much would the house take bef
The storm raged outside, wind howling through the skeletal trees that lined the long, winding road to Wintercroft Hall. The figure in the doorway shivered violently, their breath coming in ragged gasps as rain dripped from their soaked clothes onto the marble floor.Elliot didn’t move. Neither did Isla.The house had chosen again.The newcomer clutched a damp, crumpled envelope in their trembling fingers. Their knuckles were pale, their hands shaking as they held the letter out like proof of something they still didn’t fully understand.“I—I got this,” they stammered, their voice raw with panic. “I don’t know why. I don’t even know why I came.” Their wild eyes darted between Elliot and Isla. “I think I made a mistake.”Elliot exhaled slowly, his fingers curling at his sides.They always say that at first.The house was never wrong.“You should come inside,” Elliot said.The figure hesitated, looking over their shoulder as if debating whether to turn and run.Elliot had seen that hesi