After what felt like hours—hell, maybe it was hours, time doesn't mean shit in this place—I finally worked up the nerve to go down those stairs. Every step creaked under my weight, echoing through the darkness like a warning. I kept expecting that bull bastard to come charging out of the shadows, but all I got was silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.
The basement—or whatever the hell this was—looked nothing like the house above. The walls were a deep, dirty brown, warped and old, like the inside of a coffin. The floorboards groaned with every step, and somewhere in the distance, I could hear the slow, relentless ticking of an old clock. I looked around, but there was no clock. Just that sound, drilling into my skull.
I moved through the hallways, slow and careful, feeling like a rat in a maze. Every so often, I'd get this prickling sensation on the back of my neck, like a thousand eyes were watching me. I'd spin around, flashlight raised, but there was nothing—just shadows and that goddamn silence. I've been in abandoned buildings before, places everyone swore were haunted. I've slept in crack houses, run from cartel safehouses, and spent nights in places that would make most people piss themselves. But this? This was something else. This was wrong on a level I couldn't even begin to explain.
None of it made sense. How do you go from a tiny cabin in the woods to a place with endless floors and impossible heights? I tried to do the math in my head, but it just made me dizzy. I shouldn't be able to breathe up here, shouldn't even be alive, but here I was, lungs working just fine—if you could call this fine.
After what felt like an eternity of wandering, I found another staircase. I was about to head down when I heard it—a whisper, right in my ear. "Turn around." My blood ran cold. I knew exactly what that meant. I'd seen enough horror movies to know that nothing good ever comes from listening to creepy voices in the dark.
I sighed, bracing myself, and turned around. Nothing. Just empty space. I let out a shaky laugh, turned back—and nearly shit myself. Standing right in front of me was a woman in a white dress, long black hair hanging over her face, skin pale as death. Her face—God, her face—was twisted, rotten, like something that had crawled out of a nightmare.
"Shit! You're ugly!" I blurted out before I could stop myself.
Apparently, ghosts have feelings, because she let out a scream that rattled my bones. Before I could move, she grabbed the back of my shirt and flung me across the room like I weighed nothing. I crashed into the wall, pain exploding through my body, only for her to grab me again and hurl me straight down through the floor. I fell, smashing through level after level, until finally she let go and I hit the ground, gasping for air.
Everything hurt. My ribs, my back, my pride. But I knew I had to move. I could still hear her screaming, that awful, inhuman wail echoing through the halls. I scrambled to my feet and ran, desperate for somewhere—anywhere—to hide. I dove into a room and slid under the bed, heart pounding in my chest.
Of course, she knew exactly where I was. I could feel her presence, cold and heavy, just waiting for me to make a move. I held my breath, praying she'd get bored and leave. No such luck. In a blink, she was right there, face-to-face with me under the bed. She yanked me out and slammed me against the wall again, hard enough to make my vision blur.
I staggered to my feet, adrenaline drowning out the pain, and bolted for the nearest staircase. She was right behind me, her screams chasing me down the hall. I hit the stairs and took them three at a time, not daring to look back.
At the bottom, I stopped, gasping for breath. The screaming stopped. I looked back—she was gone. For now, at least.
I slumped against the wall, shaking. "Fuck this place," I muttered. "Fuck this job. And fuck whoever built this house."
But I was alive. For now.