The House is Hungry

The doors burst open.

And the voices poured out.

Whispers flooded the room, low and indistinct, slithering through the air like wind through dead leaves.

Ethan's body locked up.

It was too many voices at once.

They whispered over each other, merging into something inhuman.

Maya yanked his arm. "Ethan, we need to move!"

Lucy sat perfectly still at the head of the table.

Her smile had stretched wider.

Too wide.

Her lips barely moved when she spoke.

"They don't want you here."

Ethan's breath hitched. "Who?"

The voices.

The whispers shifted.

They weren't just random noise anymore.

They were saying something.

Ethan's ears strained to separate them.

He caught pieces—words buried under static.

"…trapped… left us… we were here first… forgotten… forgotten… forgotten…"

Maya's grip tightened. "Ethan."

The voices grew louder.

They came from the shadows spilling out of the doors. The figures were half-formed, shifting between shapes. Faces that weren't faces.

But Ethan could feel their anger.

It was a pressure in the air.

Like the room was breathing around them.

"They remember you."

Ethan's head snapped back to Lucy.

She was still watching.

Still smiling.

Ethan's pulse pounded. "What do you mean?"

Lucy's head tilted.

The voices answered for her.

"…You were here before."

Ethan's stomach dropped.

"No," he whispered. "That's not possible."

The whispers surged.

"…You left us behind… we never left… forgotten… forgotten… forgotten…"

The room shuddered.

Maya cursed under her breath. "I don't care what any of this means. We are leaving. Now."

She lunged for the door.

But the shadows moved first.

They rushed forward—not like smoke, but like hands reaching out.

Maya screamed.

Ethan grabbed her, yanking her back.

The voices shrieked.

The table snapped in half.

The chandelier swung violently, its glass shattering, sending shards flying.

Ethan's heart slammed against his ribs.

Lucy finally stood up.

And for the first time—

Her smile faded.

She looked afraid.

Then she whispered, "Run."

Ethan didn't ask twice.

He grabbed Maya's hand and ran.

Behind them, the voices screamed.

The House was closing in.

And the whispers—

They weren't just angry anymore.

They were hungry.

The House didn't want them to leave.

The halls stretched longer the more Ethan and Maya ran. The doors kept changing, shifting places when they weren't looking. The whispers followed, voices layering over each other like a song played in reverse.

Ethan's grip on Maya's hand tightened.

Somewhere in this nightmare, Reed was still alive.

Or at least—he had been.

Maya's breath came in ragged bursts. "We should've never followed the blood trail."

Ethan didn't answer. He was focused on the end of the hall—on the one door that hadn't moved.

It was different from the others.

Older. Dark oak, deep cracks running through the wood, like something inside had tried to break out.

And from the other side—

A sound.

A single knock.

Maya tensed. "No way."

Ethan swallowed hard. Then—he knocked back.

Silence.

Then—

The door unlocked itself.

Click.

Maya cursed under her breath. "We are so screwed."

Ethan pushed it open.

And inside—

Reed.

Reed was slumped against the far wall, his breathing shallow, uneven. His hoodie was soaked—blood clinging to the fabric. The room was small, nothing but peeling wallpaper and a single flickering lamp on the ceiling.

Ethan rushed forward. "Reed!"

Reed groaned softly, barely lifting his head.

But—something was wrong.

His arms.

Deep black cuts ran down them—too precise, too clean. Like they had been carved.

And on the walls—

Names.

Hundreds of them. Scratched in.

Some he recognized. Some were half-erased. Some were his own.

Maya's breath hitched. "Ethan... your name is on the wall."

Ethan's chest tightened.

Reed stirred, voice hoarse. "It keeps happening... I wake up here... again and again..."

Ethan knelt beside him. "What do you mean?"

Reed's hands shook. His eyes flicked to the names on the walls.

"They write us down before we disappear."

Maya's face drained of color. "Who does?"

Reed tried to speak.

Then—the whispers returned.

Louder. Closer.

The lamp flickered violently. The room trembled.

Ethan grabbed Reed's arm. "We're getting out of here."

Reed's fingers twitched.

Then, with glassy, tired eyes, he whispered—

"You can't save me."

The light went out.

And the whispers—

Screamed.