"You can't escape," he whispered. "This is the way of things. The dead haunt the living, and when the living die, they haunt the next. The cycle never ends."
Evelyn's resolve crumbled. She returned to the house one final time, driven by desperation and madness.
The neighbors said they heard screams that night, but no one dared investigate.
When they found Evelyn's body days later, her face was twisted in terror, her eyes wide and empty. The official cause of death was a heart attack. But those who knew the house's history whispered that she had joined the others—become one of the many voices that echoed through its halls.
And they were right.
Evelyn's first night as a ghost was a revelation. The hunger was unbearable—a gnawing need to touch the world of the living, to feel their warmth, their vitality. She found herself drawn to the edges of consciousness, whispering into the dreams of those who dared to enter the house.
"Come closer," she whispered. "Let me show you the truth."
The cycle continued, as it always had. The dead, yearning for life. The living, terrified of death. Each haunting the other, bound together in an eternal, inescapable dance.
And Evelyn? She understood now. The man with black eyes had been right all along.
There was no escaping the cycle.
There never had been.