A Broken House and Dead Bodies (part I)

Kaelen stepped out of his apartment into a world drowned in rain. The sky churned above the city, a shifting mass of shadows, black and silver like a wound stitched with lightning. The streetlights flickered, struggling against the thickening mist, their glow barely cutting through the downpour.

The rain was unnatural—falling not like water but like something heavier, something sentient. It clung to the streets, muffling sound, swallowing the world in a graveyard hush.

Kaelen pulled his coat tighter around himself and moved toward his car.

His fingers trembled as he gripped the wheel.

The city dissolved in the rearview mirror, its lights swallowed by the endless void behind him. The road stretched forward, infinite and unknown, the darkness ahead an open mouth waiting to consume.

Why had he agreed to this?

A ghost story. That's all it was. A ridiculous story whispered in bars, passed along by drunks and lunatics. But now, with each mile, something tightened around his chest—something cold, something real.

The road grew rough. Asphalt gave way to broken stone, then to mud, deep and suffocating. The headlights cut through twisted trees, their branches gnarled into clawed hands.

The village emerged like a relic from time itself—small, crooked houses with empty windows, their silence absolute. No streetlights. No movement. Just a lingering presence.

Eyes watched from the darkened windows, not in curiosity but in resignation, as if they had already seen how his story would end.

His tank was nearly empty when he found a lone gas station, its neon sign flickering like a dying heartbeat.

Inside, an old man stood behind the counter, his face weathered like something left too long in the rain. His eyes, however, were sharper than knives.

"Be careful," the old man murmured, voice dry as old paper.

He refused to say more.

Kaelen didn't ask. He didn't want to know.

He paid for the gas and left.

And then, the house.

It loomed at the end of the road, waiting.

It wasn't just old. It wasn't just abandoned.

It was dying.

The roof sagged, its weight too much for the rotting beams. The iron gate, rusted and brittle, stood half-open as if it had given up on keeping anything out—or keeping anything in.

The house pulsed with something unseen, something that curled its fingers around the night itself.

Kaelen turned off the engine.

The rain slowed. Not stopped. Just slowed.

Like it was watching.

That's when he saw it.

Lying in the mud in front of the house—buried slightly, as if forgotten—was a tarot card.

A thrill of déjà vu slithered through him.

He picked it up, his breath catching in his throat.

There was no image on the front. Just a single word, written in sprawling, uneven print.

"CLOWN."

His fingers tightened around the card. His pulse hammered.

His mind whispered: I dreamt this. I saw this. I knew this.

The house knew he was here.

A gust of wind pushed against his back.

The door creaked open before he even touched it.

The darkness inside was thick, waiting, breathing.

Then the smell hit him.

Thick. Sweet. Metallic.

Blood.

His body locked up, his instincts screaming at him to run. But his feet stepped forward.

Not because he wanted to.

Because something inside the house was pulling him in.

He crossed the threshold.

The door slammed shut behind him.

The last sound of the outside world.

Then… silence.

But not an empty silence.

A listening silence.

The walls were covered in shadows. Not cast by light—no, they were painted there, figures frozen mid-motion. They reached outward, fingers elongated, stretching toward something unseen.

The furniture was rotten, the air thick with the scent of damp wood and something older.

Then he saw it.

On a dust-covered table lay something out of place.

A manuscript.

The pages were yellowed, brittle as dead leaves. But the ink—

The ink was fresh.

His fingers hovered over the pages.

Then, against every screaming instinct, he turned the first page.

And he read.

At first, the words made no sense. Sentences twisted, looping back into themselves, phrases repeating like a scratched record. Then, clarity cut through the madness like a knife:

"The writer arrives at the house. He is afraid, but he steps inside anyway. The door closes behind him. The manuscript is waiting. His hands shake as he opens it. He reads. He realizes the story is about him. And then he knows… He was never supposed to leave."

Kaelen stopped breathing.

His hands—cold, shaking—flipped to the next page.

"He reads the next page. He sees the words written here. He begins to understand. But it is too late. The shadows move. The laughter begins."

Somewhere in the house—

A dry, rasping chuckle.

Kaelen slammed the book shut.

The laughter stopped.

Silence.

A silence that was now closer.

He bolted for the door.

His fingers fumbled with the handle. Locked.

His breath came in ragged gasps.

Then—

A whisper.

"Writer."

A voice just behind him.

Not one voice.

Many.

Cold air brushed against his neck.

Kaelen turned.

What did he see?