Charles stood frozen at the bottom of the staircase, his body paralyzed as the ghostly figure descended toward him. His heart hammered in his chest, and his mind screamed at him to move, but his legs refused to obey. The woman's pale, hollow eyes locked onto him, her steps slow and deliberate, as if savoring the fear she could see on his face.
The chat on his phone went wild, a blur of comments filling the screen.
"She's coming closer!"
"Run, dude! RUN!"
"Don't just stand there!"
A wave of cold air hit Charles as the woman drew nearer, her translucent form barely making a sound. She was wearing an old-fashioned nightgown, torn and stained, her long dark hair hanging limply around her face. Every step she took brought a strange static crackle to the air, as if reality itself was being distorted by her presence.
Finally, Charles snapped out of his frozen state. His survival instincts kicked in, and he stumbled backward, barely managing to keep his grip on the camera.
"Guys, you seeing this?" he whispered hoarsely into the mic, his voice shaking. "She's—she's real. This isn't a joke. This isn't staged!"
The ghost was only a few feet away now, her feet hovering just above the stairs. Her hollow eyes bore into his, and Charles felt an overwhelming pressure in his chest, as if the very air around him had thickened.
Without thinking, Charles turned and bolted, his shoes slipping on the dusty floor as he dashed toward the back of the mansion. He could hear the faint echo of her footsteps behind him, slow but relentless, like death itself was stalking him.
He darted into the dining room, slamming the door behind him and pressing his back against it. His breath came in ragged gasps, his mind racing. The old wooden door groaned as the cold air pressed in from the other side, but for now, it held.
He glanced at the phone in his hand, the chat still racing with messages from viewers who were both terrified and enthralled by the unfolding nightmare.
"That was insane!"
"Dude, you have to survive this!"
"She's still out there!"
Charles swallowed hard, wiping sweat from his brow. He forced himself to focus on the task at hand. The system had made it clear—he had to survive until 6 a.m., no matter what. He checked the clock above the old fireplace. It was 12:45 a.m. Less than an hour had passed.
The thought of spending five more hours in this house filled him with dread.
A sudden knock reverberated through the wooden door, followed by a slow, deliberate scratching sound. Charles flinched, pressing his back harder against the door, as if that would somehow keep the ghost out. The scratching grew louder, and then stopped, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.
The cold air in the room seemed to intensify, and Charles could see his breath misting in front of him. He was no longer alone.
From the corner of the room, the air shimmered, and another figure began to materialize. Charles's heart skipped a beat as the form of a man took shape. He was dressed in a tattered suit, his face twisted in a permanent snarl of agony. His eyes—dark, empty pits—turned slowly toward Charles.
"No, no, no…" Charles muttered, backing away from the door. His only escape route was now blocked by yet another apparition. The man took a step forward, his movements slow and jerky, like a marionette being pulled by invisible strings. The air around him buzzed with the same strange static that had accompanied the woman upstairs.
Charles frantically scanned the room, looking for anything that could help him. His eyes landed on an old iron fire poker resting against the hearth. Without hesitation, he lunged for it, grabbing the heavy tool in both hands. It wasn't much, but it was something.
The ghost continued to move toward him, its mouth opening in a silent scream. Charles raised the poker, holding it between him and the advancing figure, though he had no idea if it would do any good. His breathing was shallow, his pulse pounding in his ears.
The man stopped a few feet away from him, his empty eyes fixed on the iron poker. For a brief moment, the static in the air seemed to waver, and the ghost took a step back.
Charles blinked in disbelief. Is it afraid of this?
Not wasting another second, Charles swung the poker, the heavy iron passing through the ghost's torso. To his surprise, the figure flickered, like a glitch in a video, and then vanished, leaving only a faint buzz in the air.
Charles stood there, gasping for breath, the poker still raised in his hands. He looked around, half-expecting the ghost to reappear, but the room remained empty. The cold air lingered, but the oppressive presence seemed to have lifted—at least for now.
The chat exploded with comments.
"What just happened??"
"Did he just defeat a ghost?"
"The poker! Use the iron!"
Charles stared at the screen, his mind racing. Iron. That had to be it. He remembered something about ghosts being repelled by certain metals, and maybe this old fire poker had been enough to disrupt the ghost's form. He didn't have time to think about it further. There was still the woman to deal with, and God only knew what else this mansion had in store for him.
A loud bang echoed from upstairs, and Charles flinched. The ghost of the woman—she was still somewhere in the house, searching for him. He had to keep moving.
He stepped cautiously toward the door, the poker clenched tightly in his hand. As he reached for the doorknob, he paused, his fingers hovering over the cool metal.
Suddenly, a voice echoed in his mind—the system's cold, mechanical voice. Reward detected: Iron ghost repellent acquired.
Charles blinked in surprise. He glanced down at the fire poker in his hand. So that was it—the system had rewarded him with the knowledge of how to repel ghosts using iron. It wasn't much, but it was something he could use to survive the night.
Taking a deep breath, Charles pulled the door open, stepping back into the dark hallway. The silence was unnerving, but he could feel the weight of unseen eyes watching him from every shadow.
The clock now read 1:15 a.m.
He had survived an hour and fifteen minutes. Five more hours to go.
The woman's ghost was still out there, and now he knew there were more—perhaps many more—lurking in the shadows of this cursed house. But he had something they feared.
Charles gripped the iron poker tightly and moved forward, knowing that the night was far from over.
The horror had only just begun.