The footsteps above us stopped.
Not faded.
Not moved away.
Just… stopped.
That silence was worse than any scream the house had thrown at us so far.
Aiden tightened his grip around the broken chair leg he'd pulled from one of the trunks. Jonas held a rusted fireplace poker, hands shaking so badly the metal rattled softly. Ryan clutched an old lantern, the flame inside flickering like it was afraid to exist. Mira pressed herself against the wall beside me, whispering prayers under her breath in a language I didn't recognize.
I grabbed the heaviest thing I could find—an iron crowbar wedged beneath a stack of rotting boxes. It was cold. Too cold.
The attic creaked.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Each sound above us pressed into my skull like a fingertip testing where it could crack bone.
Then—
Scratch.
Long. Slow. Careful.
Something dragged across the ceiling wood.
Mira whimpered.
Aiden raised one finger to his lips. Silence.
The attic door handle began to turn.
Not violently.
Not forced.
Like someone politely letting themselves in.
The latch clicked.
The door opened inward an inch.
Darkness leaked through the gap, thicker than shadow, like smoke crawling along the floor.
A smell followed—old soil, rot, and something coppery beneath it.
Blood.
The door opened wider.
And Leah stepped inside.
Or something that looked like her.
She wore Leah's face, her clothes, her hair—but wrong. Everything about her sat slightly out of place, like a mask stretched over a skull that didn't fit.
Her smile was too wide.
Her eyes—those black, empty pits—swallowed the lantern light without reflecting it.
"Hi," she said softly.
Mira screamed.
Jonas swung the poker instinctively. It passed straight through Leah's shoulder like mist—and Jonas staggered back, horrified.
Leah tilted her head.
"That won't work," she said gently. "I'm not finished yet."
Aiden stepped forward, voice shaking but strong. "You're not Leah."
Her smile twitched.
"Oh," she replied. "But I am. I remember everything. Her fear. Her pain. Her begging."
She took one slow step into the attic.
The floorboards did not creak beneath her feet.
"I remember how it felt when the house opened me," she continued. "How it hollowed me out and filled me with itself."
Ryan backed away until his shoulders hit the wall. "What do you want?"
Leah's head snapped toward him.
"To eat," she said simply.
The lantern flame shrank.
The attic darkened.
Then Leah's body… split.
Not like flesh tearing.
Like paper folding wrong.
Her arms bent backward, joints popping. Her spine elongated, stretching upward until her head brushed the ceiling beams. Her mouth opened wider—too wide—until her jaw cracked and kept opening anyway.
Inside her throat—
Teeth.
Rows and rows of them, spiraling inward.
Mira collapsed to the floor.
I felt my legs lock.
Aiden shouted, "NOW!"
He threw the chair leg straight through Leah's head.
For a second, she froze.
Then she laughed.
A horrible, layered sound—Leah's voice stacked over something ancient and hungry.
The attic door slammed shut behind her.
The room shook.
Boxes toppled.
The rocking chair began to move again—faster now, slamming against the wall again and again.
"RUN!" Aiden screamed.
We didn't need to be told twice.
We bolted past Leah as her body unfolded further, limbs scraping the beams, shadow pooling beneath her feet.
The attic ladder dropped from the ceiling on its own.
We scrambled down, nearly falling over each other as the attic door burst open above us—
Something lunged.
The ladder snapped upward, slamming shut just as we hit the floor below.
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Panting.
We were back on a narrow upper hallway—walls lined with peeling wallpaper that pulsed faintly, like breathing lungs.
Mira sobbed uncontrollably.
Ryan vomited onto the floor.
Jonas leaned against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting, staring into nothing.
Aiden looked at me.
"Damien," he said quietly. "The house isn't just killing us."
I swallowed. "It's learning."
He nodded.
And then—
The hallway lights flickered on.
Warm. Yellow.
Normal.
Too normal.
Doors lined both sides of the corridor now—clean, polished, familiar.
At the end of the hall hung a framed photograph.
We approached it slowly.
It was us.
All six of us.
Standing outside the house.
Smiling.
Leah was in the middle.
Alive.
Under the photo was a brass plate.
WELCOME HOME.
The door nearest us creaked open.
Inside was a bedroom.
My bedroom.
From my childhood home.
Same desk. Same posters. Same cracked window.
My heart pounded.
"That's not possible," I whispered.
The house whispered back.
"You never left."
Jonas stood abruptly. "No—no—this isn't real—"
Another door opened.
Mira's childhood room.
Then Ryan's.
Then Aiden's.
The house wasn't just feeding on our bodies anymore.
It was feeding on our memories.
Leah's voice drifted down the hall, sing-song and playful.
"You can rest," she called. "The house is kind to those who stay."
Aiden grabbed my arm. "Don't go into any room. No matter what you see."
But Ryan was already staring into his doorway.
Inside, his mother sat on the bed, smiling softly.
"Ryan," she said. "You look so tired."
Ryan's breath hitched. "Mom…?"
He took a step forward.
Aiden shouted, "RYAN—NO!"
Too late.
Ryan crossed the threshold.
The door slammed shut.
We rushed to it, pounding, screaming his name.
From inside came one short scream.
Then chewing.
Wet.
Slow.
The door reopened.
The room was empty.
The bed neatly made.
The smell of blood lingered.
The house sighed.
Satisfied.
Mira collapsed, sobbing harder than before.
Jonas punched the wall until his knuckles bled.
Aiden closed his eyes briefly—just a second—but when he opened them, something had hardened inside him.
"It's going to take us," he said. "One by one."
Leah's laughter echoed from the ceiling.
"Five," she whispered.
The hallway lights flickered again.
And somewhere deep inside the house—
A door unlocked itself.