Emma descended the narrow stairs cautiously.
With each step, she felt as if the house itself was holding its breath.
The flame of the candle flickered in the draft, casting long, thin shadows across the walls.
The air below was thicker, more suffocating—like no one had been down here for decades.
At the bottom of the stairs, she reached a narrow, arched corridor. The walls were stone, damp and cold. Spiral patterns were etched into the rocks, entwined like they were alive.
Her fingers tightened around the candle holder.
Her footsteps echoed softly in the corridor.
As she moved forward, the spirals grew denser. The air filled with a strange metallic scent—like blood and rust.
At the end of the passage, a low archway opened.
Emma peeked in.
A small room stood before her, nearly empty.
At its center: a rotting, old wooden table.
And on the table—
A journal.
Its leather cover was cracked and darkened with age.
Emma stepped closer and opened it.
The pages were yellowed, the writing smudged, but one symbol appeared again and again: the spiral.
And the same words repeated over and over: "There is no way out."
She turned more pages.
One stood out.
A date: October 13, 1978
And beneath it:
"The house will not let go."
Emma shivered.
The candle flame suddenly flared.
And in the corners of the room—within the shadows—something stirred.
She stepped back.
Something was coming toward her from the darkness.
Something not human.
The candle flickered once, then went out.
Darkness swallowed her.