Charles moved cautiously down the hallway, his grip on the iron poker tight. The narrow corridor stretched ahead of him, flanked by closed doors that seemed to beckon him with their silent, menacing presence. His breathing was still ragged, his pulse pounding in his ears, but the victory over the ghostly man in the dining room gave him a glimmer of hope. Iron repelled ghosts. The system had rewarded him with this knowledge, but the rest of the night remained an ominous question mark.
The clock on his phone read 1:30 a.m. He still had nearly five hours to go before dawn, and the mansion felt more alive—more dangerous—with each passing minute.
He peered down at the chat on his phone. The viewers had multiplied, with thousands now tuned in to his livestream. They were eagerly commenting, offering encouragement, jokes, and theories.
"Dude, you're a ghostbuster now!"
"Careful, she's still out there!"
"What's behind those other doors??"
Charles exhaled sharply, his nerves on edge. The viewers were right—there was still the ghostly woman, and she was somewhere in this house. She had nearly caught him at the stairs, and he doubted he could outrun her a second time.
Suddenly, a loud creak echoed through the mansion, causing Charles to freeze in place. He held the poker in front of him, scanning the hallway. It was coming from upstairs again—the same place where the woman had first appeared.
"Here we go again," he muttered to himself, mustering as much courage as he could.
He headed for the staircase, his shoes echoing softly on the old wooden floor. As he neared the stairs, he glanced up, half-expecting to see her ghostly form waiting for him at the top. The staircase loomed in front of him, its darkened banister casting eerie shadows on the walls.
The air grew colder again, and Charles felt the familiar prickling sensation of being watched. He gripped the iron poker tighter as he ascended the stairs, his heart thudding in his chest with each step.
At the top, the hallway stretched out in both directions. The dim light from his flashlight barely pierced the darkness, and the walls were lined with faded portraits—each face staring down at him with cold, lifeless eyes. He avoided looking at them too long. Something about those eyes unsettled him, as if the figures in the paintings were more than just images trapped in frames.
Then, the door at the end of the hallway creaked open.
Charles's stomach dropped as the same cold gust of wind he had felt earlier rushed toward him. The door slowly swung inward, revealing nothing but pitch-black darkness beyond it. He knew instinctively that she was in there, waiting.
The chat exploded again.
"She's in there!"
"Don't go in, man! This is crazy!"
"You got this! Just keep that iron ready!"
Charles hesitated, glancing at the fire poker in his hand. It had worked before, but he couldn't shake the feeling that the woman was different—more dangerous than the man downstairs. The very air around her had felt charged with something darker, something ancient.
But he had no choice. He couldn't stay in the hallway forever, and running wasn't an option. He had to survive, and the only way to do that was to face whatever was inside that room.
Slowly, Charles moved toward the open door, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. The room beyond was a large bedroom, similar to the one he had explored earlier. A massive canopy bed stood in the center, its once-luxurious drapes now torn and covered in dust. The air inside the room felt thick, heavy with the weight of unseen eyes.
The woman was nowhere to be seen.
Charles edged into the room, keeping the flashlight high and the poker ready. He scanned the corners, the shadows shifting ominously as the light flickered over the decaying furniture. His breath came in shallow gasps, the cold wrapping around him like icy fingers.
Then, from behind him, he heard it—a soft, rasping whisper.
"Charles..."
His blood ran cold. He spun around, shining the flashlight toward the doorway, but there was no one there. The door remained open, the hallway beyond still empty.
The voice came again, closer this time. "Charles... come closer."
His heart pounded as he whipped the light toward the far corner of the room. That's when he saw her—standing there, half-hidden in the shadows. The ghostly woman, her face still pale and hollow, her eyes dark voids. She was watching him, her lips curled into a slight, knowing smile.
Charles took a step back, the iron poker raised defensively in front of him. But something about her smile unnerved him more than anything else. It wasn't the mindless malice of the man downstairs. It was calculated. She was toying with him.
"You're not real," Charles whispered, more to himself than to her. "You can't hurt me."
The woman's smile widened.
"You think that iron will save you?" she rasped. "I've seen men like you... brave at first. But in the end, you will beg to escape."
She took a step forward, her feet hovering just above the ground, her movement impossibly smooth. Charles's grip on the poker tightened, his hand trembling slightly.
The chat was going wild again.
"Iron! Use the iron!"
"Don't let her get closer!"
"Holy crap, she's terrifying!"
But Charles couldn't move. It was as if the weight of her gaze had pinned him in place. His mind screamed for him to swing the poker, to defend himself, but his body felt disconnected, frozen in fear. The room seemed to close in around him, the shadows creeping closer, wrapping him in their icy grip.
The woman moved with agonizing slowness, her hollow eyes never leaving his. "Six hours is a long time, Charles," she whispered, her voice echoing in his mind. "Let me show you what it feels like... to never escape."
Suddenly, her hand shot out, long, skeletal fingers reaching for him. Charles snapped out of his trance just in time, swinging the poker wildly. The iron cut through the air, grazing her arm, and she shrieked—an ear-splitting wail that rattled the very walls of the room.
Her form flickered, distorting like static on a broken TV, and then she vanished, leaving the room deathly silent.
Charles stood there, panting heavily, his chest heaving with adrenaline. He had done it again—he had driven her back. But the sensation of her presence still lingered in the air, like a phantom touch on his skin.
The chat erupted in celebration.
"YES! You got her!"
"Man, that scream was terrifying!"
"Keep going, you're doing great!"
Charles glanced at the clock on his phone. 2:00 a.m. He had made it through another half-hour, but the night was far from over. He couldn't shake the feeling that the woman wasn't gone for good. She would be back, and next time, she wouldn't let him get away so easily.
He took a deep breath, steadying his nerves, and stepped out of the room, back into the hallway. The shadows seemed to press in closer now, as if the house itself was growing more alive with each passing minute. The darkness felt thicker, the air colder, and Charles knew that whatever came next, he had to be ready.
The night was only just beginning.
And the ghosts were not done with him yet.