Nobody in the town remembered building the house at the end of Granger Road. It wasn't on any map, and if you asked five people to describe it, you'd get five different answers. Some said it was a single-story cottage, others a towering Victorian with broken gables. But they all agreed on one thing: you never walked past it twice.
Marla was new in town. A freelance photographer with a taste for the abandoned and strange, she couldn't resist the rumors. On an overcast morning, she took her camera, a flashlight, and a cautious step beyond the iron gate that had rusted shut behind her.
The house greeted her like it had been expecting her.
Inside, it smelled like forgotten wood and whispering rot. Every photo she took came out wrong: rooms that weren't there, figures that hadn't been, shadows that leaned toward her. Her flashlight flickered not from dying batteries, but as if something unseen passed before it.
Then she found the room.
It was on the second floor, behind a red door with no handle. It opened anyway.
Empty, circular, with no windows - only a single chair in the center and walls so smooth they seemed to ripple when she blinked. She stepped inside. The door shut behind her with a soft click.
Then came the voice.
At first, she thought it was an echo - her own breathing bouncing oddly. But it began to say things she hadn't said. It whispered her name in the voice of her dead mother. It laughed in the voice of an ex she hadn't spoken to in years. Then it cried. Then it begged.
Then it started offering her deals.
"You can leave," it said, "if you leave part of you behind."
She didn't know what that meant until the chair creaked and she stood up. Not Marla, but something that looked like her, blinking like it had just woken up. It smiled with too many teeth and walked past her, through the now-open door.
She tried to follow.
The door didn't budge.
Now she sits in the chair, waiting for the house to invite someone new. The room still echoes, but none of the voices are hers anymore.
Just the others who stayed too long.
Marla was new in town. A freelance photographer with a taste for the abandoned and strange, she couldn't resist the rumors. On an overcast morning, she took her camera, a flashlight, and a cautious step beyond the iron gate that had rusted shut behind her.
The house greeted her like it had been expecting her.
Inside, it smelled like forgotten wood and whispering rot. Every photo she took came out wrong: rooms that weren't there, figures that hadn't been, shadows that leaned toward her. Her flashlight flickered not from dying batteries, but as if something unseen passed before it.
Then she found the room.
It was on the second floor, behind a red door with no handle. It opened anyway.
Empty, circular, with no windows - only a single chair in the center and walls so smooth they seemed to ripple when she blinked. She stepped inside. The door shut behind her with a soft click.
Then came the voice.
At first, she thought it was an echo - her own breathing bouncing oddly. But it began to say things she hadn't said. It whispered her name in the voice of her dead mother. It laughed in the voice of an ex she hadn't spoken to in years. Then it cried. Then it begged.
Then it started offering her deals.
"You can leave," it said, "if you leave part of you behind."
She didn't know what that meant until the chair creaked and she stood up. Not Marla, but something that looked like her, blinking like it had just woken up. It smiled with too many teeth and walked past her, through the now-open door.
She tried to follow.
The door didn't budge.
Now she sits in the chair, waiting for the house to invite someone new. The room still echoes, but none of the voices are hers anymore.
Just the others who stayed too long.
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