Game 13: The House That Eats People
Han Tae-yang (한태양) had never trusted houses that looked like they had been abandoned for too long.
They were always too quiet. Too still. Too… drafty in the wrong way.
And now, here he was, standing at the cracked doorway of one, carrying his "brilliant" plan like a badge on his forehead.
The moment he stepped inside, the air changed.
It wasn't just cold. It was the kind of cold that slithered under your fingernails and tugged at your veins like a miser counting coins. His skin prickled, his nose stung, and his ears popped as though the entire building had taken a sharp inhale the moment he walked in.
For the first time since getting mana, Tae-yang felt it: ghost energy.
It wasn't like the clean sharpness of fire mana or the gentle weight of water mana he had read about on forums. This was sticky, like cobwebs smeared across his lungs, dragging invisible fingers over his throat.
"Great. Just great," Tae-yang muttered, holding his arms out like a bad ghost-hunting show host. "I finally get mana, and instead of fireballs or lightning? I get… secondhand smoke from dead people. Amazing. Truly, I'm living the dream."
He walked deeper in, muttering louder as if he was giving the ghosts a comedy show.
"Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, oh wait, there are no ladies or gentlemen, just resentful spirits and rotting wallpaper. Please admire the state-of-the-art architecture: collapsing beams, an aroma of rat pee, and ah yes, my favorite feature, floorboards that scream louder than my landlord when rent is late."
creak.
"See? Authentic."
He placed his hand against the wall. The wood pulsed faintly under his palm, like a weak heartbeat. He yanked it away.
"…Nope. Nope. If the house itself is breathing, then I'm not technically trespassing, I'm just being swallowed."
Still, he trudged upstairs. Each step groaned like a drunk old man at karaoke night, threatening to give way at any moment.
At the top was a hallway lined with doors, most cracked open just enough to tempt him. Tae-yang peeked into on, nothing but broken furniture. Another, just a window with glass jagged like fangs.
Finally, he found it.
A room with a bed.
The bed was crooked, one leg broken, sheets gray with dust. But compared to the other rooms, this was luxury. At least it didn't have a suspicious blood smear or "WELCOME TO HELL" scratched into the wallpaper.
Tae-yang sniffed the air. Musty, like mold and forgotten tears. He coughed. "Mmm. Five stars on Yelp. Would die here again."
He flopped onto the mattress. The springs screamed, the dust shot into the air, and something scampered in the corner. He shut his eyes anyway.
"Alright, mission plan. Pretend to sleep. Ghosts love messing with idiots who look defenseless. Lucky for them, I was born defenseless."
Time passed. He wasn't sure how much. The night outside pressed against the boarded-up windows, the silence deepening until even the rats seemed to stop breathing.
Then it hit him.
Not a sound. Not a shadow.
A pull.
Something invisible pressed on his chest. His breath caught in his throat. His limbs twitched, refusing to move. His heartbeat slowed as if someone was pinching the strings of his life with greedy fingers.
He gasped. His skin turned clammy. His eyes widened.
"…Oi. Wait. Wait, wait, wait"
But the words were weak, slipping from his lips like steam in winter.
The realization slammed into him:
He wasn't pretending to sleep anymore.
Something was stealing the act from him.
His life force was bleeding out, thread by thread, and there was nothing he could do.
And right there, on that broken bed, in that house with walls that pulsed like lungs.
Han Tae-yang felt the sharp edge of death creeping in.