Instinctively, the three of them raised their weapons, barrels fixed upon the frail silhouette at the top of the staircase.
"Who are you? How do we get out of here? Tell us!" Eiden barked, though the tremor in his voice betrayed the fragile thread between fury and fear.
The old woman's chuckle slithered through the silence, dry and sharp as cracked glass.
"Pointing your guns at a woman old enough to be your grandmother? How utterly disappointing… This generation knows nothing of respect. Children, through and through."
She extended one thin, pale hand, her crooked finger descending like a verdict. A heavy pressure swept the room, unseen yet merciless. Their rifles—once solid extensions of their resolve—sank beneath the crushing weight. They fought to hold on, veins bulging, arms straining, but their strength crumbled. The weapons fell, clattering uselessly against the carpet with a muffled finality.
Serena's breath quivered in her throat. "Guys…" she whispered, her eyes wide with dawning horror. "I think she's a witch."
"Think?" Eiden snapped, his voice jagged. Tyler added in unison, "Be certain."
The woman descended the final steps at an unhurried pace, each tap of her heel a pronouncement echoing in their chests. They recoiled, retreating as though some primal instinct demanded it.
"What do you want from us? Why are you keeping us here?" Tyler demanded, but his voice cracked against the vastness of her indifference.
She gave no answer. Instead, she drifted past them with the effortless authority of one who need not justify herself. Crossing the chamber, she lowered her frail body with eerie elegance into a velvet sofa adorned with gilded edges. She gestured with a languid hand toward the seats opposite.
"Sit."
"Stop ignoring us and answer!" Tyler snapped, anger piercing through his fear. "Let us out—now!"
Her head turned, sharply, predatory. Her eyes glinted like obsidian, and with a mere flick of her finger the world shifted. Invisible hands seized them, hoisting their bodies aloft like marionettes. For a fleeting second, they hung suspended—helpless puppets against her will—before being cast down, limbs sprawling against the cushions of the sofa. Breathless, dazed, stripped of defiance, they watched in silence as she poured tea into porcelain cups as if nothing at all had happened.
"First of all," she said, her voice calm and even, as though delivering a lecture, "I did not imprison you. You walked willingly into this house."
Serena forced herself upright, spine stiff despite her trembling.
"Then… how do we leave?"
The woman's lips curved into a sly smile, a serpent's caress.
"At last. Someone who speaks without barking like a dog. But no—leaving will not be simple. You broke the rule."
Eiden's gut clenched. "Rule? What rule?"
"Never climb the stairs," she whispered, her voice soft yet heavy, like a shroud of velvet suffocating the air. "Never. And yet you climbed. Worse—you dared step into this chamber. Did you truly think you could leave so easily?"
Tyler leaned forward, desperation laced with forced politeness. "My lady, we apologize. We did not mean to intrude. We only need to return. Please… grant us this mercy."
Her smile deepened, her eyes alight with cruel amusement. "Mercy? Perhaps. But nothing comes without a price. Very well. I shall grant you a chance. We will play a game. If you win, I will release you."
Eiden's throat tightened. "A game? What kind of game?"
"The kind I choose," she murmured, tapping a nail—long, yellowed, like a talon—against the surface of a box that materialized upon the table, its surface etched with shifting runes that glowed faintly like embers.
"We'll play," Tyler blurted, his voice too quick, too loud.
"You fool," Eiden hissed, clutching his shoulder. "She's a witch. Her games could kill us."
"And do we have another choice?" Tyler shot back through clenched teeth.
Their silence was answer enough.
With a languid sweep of her hand, the box opened. Within, strange shimmering pieces writhed as though alive, shifting and coiling like silver serpents. Then—three daggers appeared out of thin air, dropping onto the table with a metallic clang that reverberated through the chamber.
"Now," the old woman breathed, her words like smoke curling through their bones, "fulfill the command."
The air thickened with dread. Serena's hands trembled. Tyler instinctively reached for his rifle before remembering its uselessness. Eiden, however, after a moment's hesitation, stepped forward. His hand curled around the dagger's hilt—it was unnaturally cold, the frost of graves lingering in its grip.
"She said bleed," he murmured, forcing a grim smile. "But she never said how much."
Before the others could react, he pressed the blade against his arm, barely pricking the skin. A bead of crimson swelled, rolled, and fell upon the table. The wood drank it eagerly, the drop vanishing as though swallowed by a thirsty throat.
Serena, pale and shaking, followed suit. Tyler cursed under his breath but did the same. Three drops, three offerings.
The old woman's smile widened with approval. "Clever boy. Very clever indeed… The House is satisfied. Let us continue."
Eiden's voice was tight. "How long does this game last?"
"Seven turns," she replied, her tone silk over steel. "Seven cards until the deck is spent."
With a flick of her wrist, seven cards spread across the table. Their edges shimmered faintly, as though alive with pulsing light. Eiden's hand shook as he reached for one.
The letters burned into his mind as he read aloud:
"Reveal your darkest secret."
His laugh was bitter, mocking. "A secret? What kind of joke is this?"
Her eyes narrowed, her voice slicing through him.
"Speak… or the House will choose for you."
Sweat traced down his temple. "Fine. My darkest secret? …I once stole a thousand coins from my uncle to buy a PlayStation. No one knew."
Tyler stared, aghast. "You?! We all thought it was Michael. His father sent him to the army for that theft. And you— you let him take the blame?"
The table pulsed, glowing letters etching themselves across the wood:
"Tell me about that cursed day… September 12th."
Eiden's face drained of color. His voice cracked. "How do you know about that?"
Serena and Tyler exchanged bewildered glances. "What's going on, Eiden?"
His breath hitched. His words poured out in a shudder.
"I was ten. That night… I saw my father strangling my older brother, Jason. He pressed until Jason went still. I hid, shaking, wetting myself in fear. When I returned later, the house was crowded—police, neighbors. But when the door opened… it wasn't my father who greeted them. It was Jason. Alive. But wrong. His eyes… hollow, empty. He smiled and whispered: Hello, little brother. We need to talk."
Serena covered her mouth with trembling hands. Tyler whispered, "But Eiden… you never had a brother."
A hollow laugh tore from Eiden's throat. "That's why I never told anyone. Everyone believes Jason never existed."
The table shuddered, a crimson glow pulsing like a heartbeat. The old woman's eyes gleamed with unholy delight.
"Ah… a secret worth savoring. But you lied before. And the House does not forgive lies."
Eiden's words froze. He clutched his throat as invisible fingers crushed the sound from him. He opened his mouth to scream, but silence reigned.
"Eiden?!" Serena cried, horror breaking her voice.
The old woman leaned back, savoring her tea, her smile cruel and satisfied.
"The rules are the rules. He lied to the House once. Now… his voice belongs to me."
The silence that followed was more terrifying than any scream. The walls seemed to shift, the air heavy with listening shadows. Deep within the mansion, the floorboards groaned, and a whisper—thin, mocking—drifted through unseen cracks, like the House itself was laughing.