We stood at the foot of the mansion.
It wasn't ruined. Not crumbling, not strangled by vines or moss. No — it looked lived in. Like someone had swept the porch only yesterday and left the windows half-open to let in the breeze. But there was something about it. The stonework seemed tired, the roofline sagged like shoulders long used to bearing weight.
It hadn't decayed — it had aged.
Like a man who wore his years well but couldn't hide the burden of them.
The door was already ajar. A single gap in the storm.
"Looks friendly," I muttered.
No one laughed.
Edward was the first to step forward, squinting inside. "Odd… very odd."
"What?" Dante asked, flashlight trembling slightly in his hand.
Edward aimed the beam into the darkness. It flickered once — then died. He shook it, tapped the switch. Nothing. "Batteries are drained."
Selene crossed her arms. "Convenient."
We tried our own torches. Same story. Dead. But our phones still worked — for now.
Edward knelt, brushing the banister's carved wood. "Longhorn beetles and wood borers nest in places like this. But… look here — Georgian banister, late Victorian crown molding, and that fireplace—Renaissance design." His brow furrowed. "Whoever built this didn't care about time. They wanted everything."
Amira tilted her head. "Why abandon something like this?"
No one had an answer.
We decided to stay in the front room. The storm pressed against the walls, rain crawling down the glass like restless fingers. The only warmth was the old fireplace, though it sat cold and empty.
We realised that our phones won't last long. We needed to light the fireplace up.
Dante was the first to speak up.
"Fire," Dante said. "We need fire."
So we split — half looking for wood, the rest for candles. The house swallowed our footsteps; our phone lights jittered against portraits and heavy curtains.
Then — a scream.
We ran toward it. Dante stood frozen at the corridor's end, phone trembling in his hand.
And then we saw her.
A little girl, barefoot on the polished floor, wearing a spotless white frock tied with a ribbon. She couldn't have been more than ten. Her skin was pale as candlewax, her eyes far too steady.
Behind her stood two butlers.
Both impossibly tall — their coats long, their limbs longer. One's smile stretched just a little too far, his pallid skin gleaming like porcelain. The other had golden hair and eyes blue as morning sky, but his beauty was… wrong. Like a statue that might start moving when you blink.
Dante exhaled shakily. "Yeah. That's not creepy at all."
Amira slowed her steps and leaned slightly toward one of the tall figures — the butler with the porcelain smile. Her voice was calm, careful.
"We won't be staying long," she said. "Just until the storm passes. If you could allow us shelter for the night, we'd be grateful."
The butler didn't answer.
Instead the girl looked at Amira, her smile never wavering. "Oh, that's quite alright," she said. Her gaze swept over all of them, lingering just a moment too long on each face. "You'll all be staying."
She clapped her hands once, softly. "Please join us for dinner."
The rain hammered harder outside, but the air inside smelled of roast meat, fresh bread, and warm spice. Against thunder and mist, the mansion almost seemed merciful.
The girl tilted her head, eyes lingering on the group. "We've prepared a proper meal. Soup, bread, roast… and pasta too."
Dante's head snapped up. "Oh. Pasta? That's grea—"
He paused, frowned, then sighed. "Before anyone says anything, I'm not Ita—"
"Oh, of course," the girl cut in cheerfully, already turning away. "Italians always appreciate good pasta."
"I am not Italian," Dante protested, pointing at himself as they were ushered forward. "It's just my nam—hey, wait—"
The doors closed behind them with a heavy thud, swallowing his voice.
Kieran glanced sideways at him. "You know," he said quietly, "at this point, you should just accept it."
Dante groaned. "This is cultural profiling."
The girl's laughter echoed down the hall.
We followed her through a narrow hallway filled with canvases. Dozens of empty ones leaned against the walls — blank, waiting, like they were listening.
"So where are your parents?" Dante asked.
She spun once on her heel, grinning. "They aren't here. Not yet. But they will be."
Everyone took it as childish nonsense.
Everyone except me.
Something about the way she said not yet crawled beneath my skin.
The butlers opened the door ahead with their long, gloved hands.
The dining hall stretched wider than any home deserved. A single oak table ran the length of it, candles flickering despite the still air. Silver cutlery gleamed. Platters of steaming food waited—roast fowl, fresh fruit, bread still warm, and wine glowing faintly red beneath the candlelight.
No one else was there.
"Please," hissed the pale butler, voice like paper tearing.
We hesitated. Then the girl climbed into the high-backed chair at the head of the table and folded her hands neatly. "Sit," she said sweetly. "Eat."
We all sat down at the far end chairs, away from the girl. The plates were already served as if they already know where we would sit.
The food was… perfect. Too perfect. Every bite tasted familiar. A warmth I hadn't felt in years. My mother's chicken curry. The greasy pizza I'd eaten on my first payday. The taste of something lost.
Dante blinked rapidly. "This… this is my nonna's pasta," he whispered. "She's been gone for ten years."
Selene pushed her plate away. "What the hell kind of trick—"
Selene got up from her table and went for the door behind. But that wasn't the door we came in through.
"Wait—", I tried to stop her, but she already opened that door.
A dozen voices followed—laughter, screams, sobs, whispers. Inside was a room full of paintings. Men and women in gilded frames, some regal, others grotesque. Their eyes followed us.
"You're going there," the girl said brightly. "From now on."
Dante moved first, muttering, "Nope, I'm out."
And that was when we ran.
Amira's hand found mine. "Come on!"
We lunged for the door in a panicked scramble, but Selene overtook us in a single, explosive burst of pace, her stride showing the practiced, rhythmic power of a varsity sprinter even in the panic.
The hallway stretched endlessly, the door to the foyer just out of reach. The floor beneath us shifted, tilting like a slide. I grabbed Amira's arm; she fought to pull me toward the girl.
"The child! We can't just leave her!"
Before I could say anything, the ground convulsed. The house groaned like something alive. At the far end of the hall, the butlers stood side by side, still and patient.
The floor began dragging us backward — toward them.
Amira screamed as she slipped from my grasp.
"AMIRA!"
The others tried to run, but the corridor stretched and warped. The walls twisted, swallowing doors. We were moving now — not walking, being pulled.
Dante shoved Edward forward, bracing himself. "Go!"
Edward looked back, horror in his eyes. "Dante—!"
"I said GO!"
The floor shifted again, and we were all yanked backward — the dining hall now gone, replaced by that silent, yawning room of paintings.
We hit the ground hard. The butlers loomed over us, unblinking.
From the darkness, the little girl appeared, her smile faint, voice different now — calm, cold.
"Why do you struggle so much?" she asked. "Is the world outside truly more beautiful than these paintings? Do you even know what's real anymore?"
We all were shocked to say anything.
She took a step closer, eyes glinting gold. "Maybe you were never alive out there. Maybe you're just chickens in a pen, raised to wander in circles until I call you home. The others were failures. You're the chosen ones. I'm offering you a new beginning."
Selene clenched her fists. "You're just a brat who needs a spanking."
The girl's grin widened. "Ah, there it is. The fire. I thought the accident had burned it out of you."
Selene froze. Her defiance faltered.
Edward swallowed. "Let us go."
"I will," the girl said. "After you've entertained me."
She pointed at each of us.
"Kieran, who lost his job and his worth. Dante, counting down his last two weeks. Amira, the runaway who owes more than she can pay. Selene, the fallen prodigy. And Edward—oh, you weren't even support to here."
Then she smiled at me. "Now, let's begin."
The candles flared. The walls trembled. Every painting shivered — its surface rippling like disturbed water. Faces inside the frames began to move.
The butlers lifted their hands.
And the world tilted.
The floor became liquid color, the air cracked with static.
We screamed — I don't know who first — as the pull grew irresistible.
The last thing I saw before being swallowed whole was Amira's face — eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream —
and the girl's smile stretching beyond what a human face should allow.
Then—
darkness.
and color.
and nothing.