It was an abnormally cold August night when Thomas, a young apprentice carpenter, moved into the old house at the edge of the woods. Rumour had it that no one stayed long, but Thomas scoffed at the village gossip.
The cellar door had always been stuck. On his first evening in the house Thomas was curious about the cellar door and forced it open, he picked up a candle and when he was walking down the stairs his hand was trembling. The stairs creaked underfoot, dust swirling in the gloom and the scent of mould and rot hung thick.
As he reached the bottom, the candle flickered. In the dim light he saw ancient stains splattered across the flagstones, dark, sticky patches that seemed almost fresh. A chill ran down his spine. He heard a wet, dragging sound behind a stack of crates. Against his better judgement he stepped closer.
Suddenly skeletal fingers shot out, grasping at his ankle. Thomas fell, the candle snuffed. In the suffocating darkness, something cold and slimy slithered over his skin. He tried to scream but a gnarled hand clamped over his mouth and dragged him into the floor.
The next morning the villagers went to check in on Thomas but found the house abandoned. No trace of Thomas remained, except for a trail of crimson winding down to the cellar, leading to a patch of floor that pulsed and writhed as if it was hungry for more.
The villagers decided that no one else would go missing from this house. So that night they burned it down and what ever was in that house was gone with it.
