Lena stumbled back, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The shattered mirror lay in jagged pieces at her feet, but her reflection was still there, grinning at her from the shards.
"It's too late, Lena," the voice whispered, slithering through the room like smoke.
She pressed her hands over her ears. No. No. This wasn't real.
But the house disagreed.
The walls shuddered. The floor creaked beneath her feet, as if something beneath the wood was shifting, waking up.
And then, she felt it.
A pulse.
Faint, rhythmic—like a heartbeat—thudding beneath the floorboards.
The house was alive.
Lena turned, desperate for escape. The fog had swallowed the doorway, but beyond it, she could hear footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Coming up the stairs.
Someone—or something—was coming for her.
She yanked open the dresser drawers, searching for anything. A weapon, a clue, a way out.
Inside, she found only one thing.
A key.
Wrapped in yellowed paper, with a single sentence written in her grandmother's shaking hand:
"The basement is the only way out."
Lena's stomach twisted. She had never been allowed in the basement as a child. Her grandmother had locked it. Sealed it.
Because whatever was in the fog—whatever had whispered to her—had once been down there.
And now, it wanted to get out.
The footsteps were almost at the door.
Lena grabbed the key.
And ran.