Eleanor stood before her childhood home, the old timber groaning beneath the weight of time and secrets. The house loomed against the gray sky, its gabled roof sagging, shingles warped and splintered. Ivy clawed its way up the walls, twisting through cracked window panes, its tendrils dark and brittle. She could almost feel the house watching her, its windows like hollow eyes, empty and cold.
The air was heavy, pressing against her chest, every breath thick with damp earth and decay. The trees leaned closer, their branches scratching at the roof, skeletal fingers curling around the eaves. Shadows clung to the walls, pooling beneath the sagging porch where the wood had rotted through, leaving jagged gaps that yawned like broken teeth.
She hesitated, her hand resting on the tarnished doorknob. It was cold against her skin, its metal slick with condensation. She glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting to see Thomas standing there, his face drawn and pale, his eyes haunted. But the path was empty, swallowed by fog that drifted through the village like smoke.
Eleanor turned back to the door, her pulse quickening. The pact. Her mother's voice, calling to her from the well. The shadows that moved on their own. It all circled in her mind, a tangle of fear and confusion. She needed answers, and they were buried somewhere within these walls.
She twisted the knob. The door groaned, its hinges shrieking as it swung inward, revealing darkness. The air inside was cold, stale, untouched by sunlight. She stepped across the threshold, her boots scraping against the warped floorboards. The floor creaked beneath her weight, the sound echoing through the hollow rooms.
Dust hung in the air, swirling in the faint light that seeped through the broken windows. Sheets covered the furniture, draped like ghosts over forgotten relics. The house was a tomb, frozen in time, untouched since the day her mother died. Her chest tightened, grief washing over her.
She moved through the parlor, her fingers trailing along the sheet-draped sofa, the fabric rough beneath her touch. Memories stirred—laughter echoing through the room, her mother's voice, warm and gentle, reading to her by the fire. But the laughter felt distant, warped by time. The warmth was gone, replaced by cold shadows that slithered along the walls.
She paused before the fireplace, her gaze drifting to the mantel. A layer of dust blanketed the surface, dulling the silver-framed photograph that stood at its center. Eleanor lifted it, her fingers brushing the glass, wiping away the dust. Her mother's face smiled back at her, bright and alive, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Eleanor's throat tightened, the ache of loss sharp and sudden.
A whisper stirred behind her, faint and brittle, the sound of paper rustling. She spun around, her heart leaping. The room was empty, the shadows still. But the air was colder, the light dimmer.
She took a step back, the floorboard groaning beneath her. The whisper grew louder, curling through the air like smoke. It was coming from the hallway, drifting down the stairs that led to the second floor.
Eleanor's stomach twisted, a chill crawling up her spine. She remembered those stairs, the way they creaked beneath her small feet, the way her mother's voice would echo from the top, calling her to bed. But the voice that whispered now was different—distant, hollow, warped.
She moved toward the stairs, her boots scuffing against the floor. The whisper grew sharper, clearer. It was her name, echoing through the house, a voice she knew too well. Her breath caught, her pulse quickening.
"Eleanor…"
Her mother's voice, low and mournful, drifting down the stairs like a cold breeze. Eleanor's vision blurred, her knees weakening. She gripped the banister, the wood splintered and rough beneath her palm.
She looked up, her eyes tracing the shadowed staircase, the way the light faded at the top, swallowed by darkness. Her body trembled, fear coiling in her chest. She shouldn't go up there. Every part of her screamed to run, to leave this house and never look back. But the voice wouldn't let her go.
"Come home, Eleanor…"
The words echoed through the halls, warped and distant, the sound reverberating through her bones. Her mother's voice, calling her from the shadows. Eleanor's fingers tightened on the banister, her body moving on its own, drawn up the stairs by the echo of the past.
The steps creaked beneath her weight, the wood groaning as if in pain. Shadows gathered along the walls, twisting and writhing, shapes that flickered at the edge of her vision. The air grew colder, the darkness thicker.
She reached the top, her breath fogging in the icy air. The hallway stretched before her, narrow and dark, its floorboards warped and uneven. The doors were shut, their paint peeling, the knobs rusted. But one door stood ajar, its shadows spilling into the hall. Her old bedroom.
Eleanor's chest tightened, memories flooding back—nights spent beneath her blankets, eyes wide as shadows danced along the walls. Her mother's voice, whispering lullabies, chasing away the nightmares. But the nightmares never stayed gone. They lingered in the corners, waiting for the light to fade.
The whisper came again, low and mournful, drifting from the half-open door. "Eleanor… come home…"
Her hand trembled as she pushed the door wider, its hinges groaning. The room lay before her, untouched and frozen in time. Her childhood bed stood beneath the window, its quilt faded and worn. Her toys lay scattered across the floor, dust-coated and forgotten. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of dust and decay.
She stepped inside, her eyes drawn to the window. The glass was cracked, a spiderweb of fractures spreading across its surface. Fog pressed against the pane, the trees beyond twisted and warped. Shadows moved through the mist, shapes that flickered at the edge of sight.
The whisper grew louder, wrapping around her, cold and hollow. She turned, her eyes sweeping the room, searching for the source. The shadows gathered, pooling in the corners, curling beneath the bed. They moved, twisting and shifting, faces forming in the darkness—faces she recognized.
The sacrificed. Their eyes were hollow, their mouths open, their whispers rising in a mournful chorus. They reached for her, their fingers long and thin, shadows stretching across the floor. Eleanor stumbled back, her body trembling.
The shadows surged, the whispers growing louder, filling the room with their mournful song. Eleanor's head spun, her vision blurring. Her mother's voice rose above the others, echoing through the darkness.
"Come home, Eleanor… come home…"
The room tilted, the shadows closing in, cold hands brushing her skin. Eleanor screamed, the sound swallowed by the darkness, her body falling into the shadows as they wrapped around her, pulling her down, down, down—
And then there was nothing but darkness.