Lena's breath came in ragged gasps as she tore down the hallway, the key clenched tightly in her fist. Behind her, the footsteps grew louder, closer.
The house felt different now.
The walls pulsed as if something beneath the surface was alive, breathing. The paintings on the walls had changed again—the once-stern faces of her ancestors were now twisted in expressions of agony, their mouths stretched open in silent screams.
The fog slithered after her, curling around her ankles. Whispers hissed through the air, overlapping, urgent.
"You can't run, Lena."
"It's already inside you."
"Go to the basement. Open the door. Let us in."
Her grandmother's warning echoed in her mind.
"Do not trust the voices."
The basement.
Lena skidded to a stop at the end of the hall. The door stood before her, an old wooden thing, warped with age. Deep scratches marred the surface, as though something had tried desperately to claw its way out.
Her fingers fumbled with the key.
The footsteps were just behind her now.
She didn't look back.
With a click, the lock released. The door swung open.
A wave of cold, stale air rushed up to greet her.
And then—something pulled her inside.