A Broken House and Dead Bodies (part I)

I stepped out of my apartment into a world drowning 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 piercing through the downpour.

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

I pulled my coat tighter around me and moved toward my car.

My fingers trembled as I gripped the wheel.

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

Why had I agreed to this?

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

The road grew rough. Asphalt gave way to broken stone, then to mud, deep and suffocating. My 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 with curiosity, but with resignation, as if they had already seen how my story would end.

My tank was nearly empty when I 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," he murmured, his voice dry as old paper.

He refused to say more.

I didn't ask. I didn't want to know.

I 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.

I turned off the engine.

The rain slowed. Not stopped. Just slowed.

Like it was watching.

That's when I 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 me.

I picked it up, my breath catching in my throat.

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

"CLOWN."

My fingers tightened around the card. My pulse hammered.

My mind whispered:" I dreamt this. I saw this. I knew this."

The house knew I was here.

A gust of wind pushed against my back.

The door creaked open before I even touched it.

The darkness inside was thick, waiting, breathing.

Then the smell hit me.

Thick. Sweet. Metallic.

Blood.

My body locked up, my instincts screaming at me to run. But my feet stepped forward.

Not because I wanted to.

Because something inside the house was pulling me in.

I crossed the threshold.

The door slammed shut behind me.

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 I 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.

My fingers hovered over the pages.

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

And I 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."

I stopped breathing.

My 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.

I slammed the book shut.

The laughter stopped.

Silence.

A silence that was now closer.

I bolted for the door.

My fingers fumbled with the handle. Locked.

My breath came in ragged gasps.

Then...

A whisper.

"Writer."

A voice just behind me.

Not one voice.

Many.

Cold air brushed against my neck.

I turned.

What did I see there?

I ran back as fast as I could, my breath ragged, my eyes wide from the countless shadows, and my ears deaf to footsteps or the creaking wood. I could hear only one thing—a low, droning frequency.

I rushed toward the door.

But it was as if I wasn't moving at all.

Everything felt slowed, the shadows creeping closer.

Then, they stopped.

I reached the door.

I swear, the moment I opened it, I froze.

I wasn't in the same world anymore. And yet… I was.

I knew this place. But I didn't.

It was Samsara Noctis, a story I had once written, one I had never finished.