Ding... dong...
The chime rang out like a shiver through bone.
Their bodies stiffened at once, flashlights snapping toward the source of the sound. The silence that followed was louder than the chime itself.
There, on the wall near the staircase landing, hung a large antique clock.
No numbers adorned its face—only an expanse of weathered brass. Stranger still, its hands spun slowly counterclockwise, defying logic and time.
They swallowed hard, unease growing like a weight in their chests.
"It's just a clock," Tyler said, forcing nonchalance into his voice. "Creepy, but harmless. There's nothing else on this floor except the kitchen and a bathroom. We might find something useful upstairs. Maybe the master bedroom."
Kyle and Cecilia exchanged glances. Then both nodded.
"Fine. Let's go," Kyle said.
They ascended the stairs cautiously, their boots creaking on the old wood. The air felt different here—thicker, colder. The electricity hadn't reached the second floor; the chandeliers above were dead, their glass pendants swaying faintly as if disturbed by an invisible breeze. Only the narrow beams of their flashlights guided them now.
At the top of the stairs, they entered what must have been the master bedroom.
Everything was immaculately arranged—too immaculate. The bed was made with perfect symmetry, the pillows fluffed, the curtains drawn to identical lengths. Not a speck of dust, not a thing out of place. It was as if someone had stepped out only moments ago.
The silence pressed in again, heavy and watchful.
Suddenly, Kyle froze.
His breath hitched. Then he screamed.
Tyler and Cecilia rushed to him, flashlights swinging wildly.
"What is it?!" Tyler demanded, eyes scanning the shadows.
Kyle was trembling, his face pale. "It's… it's her! She—"
His voice cut off, eyes locked on something behind them. Slowly, they turned.
It wasn't a ghost, but something equally chilling.
A massive oil painting hung on the wall above a chest of drawers. The image: an elderly man with sharp features, cold eyes, and a rigid posture that seemed to stare directly through them.
Cecilia stepped closer, her expression tightening.
"…Tyler," she said quietly, "I think this might be your great-grandfather. You look just like him."
Tyler blinked. He approached, lifting his flashlight to examine the painting. The resemblance was uncanny—even he was unsettled.
"Yeah," he murmured. "My mom has a photo of my great-grandmother… but I've never seen her husband before. Not until now."
Kyle, having regained his composure, stepped beside them and stared at the portrait.
For a moment—just a moment—he could've sworn the eyes moved. Watching. Waiting.
"No one's lived here in decades," Kyle muttered. "And yet it feels like he never left."
"This is the last room," Tyler sighed, lowering himself to the floor with a groan. "We haven't found anything we could take without my mom noticing."
"What about those silver goblets downstairs?" Kyle offered. "We could grab a few and go."
As they began to discuss, Cecilia said nothing. She was still staring at the painting, unmoving. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, then curiosity. Slowly, deliberately, she stepped forward and reached out, her fingertips brushing the frame.
"Tyler," she said, not taking her eyes off the painting. "Hand me the key."
"What? Why?" he asked, distracted.
"I said hand me the key," she repeated, more firmly.
"We're trying to plan here—this isn't the time for—hey!" he yelped as she snatched the key straight from his pocket.
Cecilia ignored his protest, holding the key in front of her like a blade of truth. She examined the corners of the ornate frame, running her fingers across the carved wood—until she found it: a tiny, almost invisible indentation at the bottom-right corner.
She inserted the key.
It fit perfectly.
With one slow turn, a soft click echoed through the room.
The painting shuddered, then pivoted outward—revealing not a wall behind it, but a dark, narrow passage descending behind a hidden door.
Kyle let out a low whistle. "I told you she was clever."
Tyler scowled.
Cecilia merely stood there, one hand on her hip, the other still resting on the open panel. She glanced back over her shoulder, lips curled in a victorious smirk.
"Well, boys…" she said coolly. "Shall we?"
They stepped into the hidden chamber—and immediately knew something was different.
Unlike the rest of the manor, which held the stale silence of abandonment, this room was... alive. Alive in the wrong way. The air here was ice-cold, sharp as knives, the kind of cold that burrowed straight into the bone. Each breath left a ghost of vapor. The three friends shivered in unison.
The heavy door slammed shut behind them with a deafening BANG.
They jumped. Spinning around, Kyle lunged for the handle, tugging with both hands. Tyler kicked the frame. Cecilia pounded her fist against the wood.
Nothing.
"Guys," Tyler said, his voice tight with panic, "I think... we're stuck."
Swallowing hard, they exchanged glances in the dim flicker of their flashlights.
Cecilia, ever the composed one, stepped forward. "Maybe there's another door. A hidden one, like the painting. Come on—start searching."
But just as she finished her sentence, all three flashlights flickered—and died.
Complete darkness swallowed the room.
A beat passed in silence. Then Kyle whispered, "Okay. Now I'm officially freaked out."
"Feel along the walls!" Cecilia barked. "There might be a switch. A power source. Anything."
Their fingers fumbled across stone, wood, cold iron—until Tyler's palm pressed something slightly loose.
"Wait," he said. "I think I just... touched something."
Click.
A low hum echoed through the room. Then, one by one, torches—real, ancient torches set into the curved stone walls—flared to life in a chain reaction. The flames danced with unnatural grace, casting warm, trembling shadows that slowly revealed the chamber's secrets.
It was a circular room, smooth and seamless, with no corners and only one door—the one that had locked them inside.
At its center stood a round stone table, covered in etched symbols and concentric carvings. A shallow depression, circular and dark, sat at the center of the table—like an empty bowl carved into the stone.
The three approached, their steps hesitant.
Tyler leaned forward. "There's writing... but it's not English. I don't recognize any of it."
"Same," Kyle added, squinting. "I don't even think it's Latin."
Both turned to Cecilia.
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on. Just because I'm the smart one doesn't mean I speak dead languages."
They stared at her in silence.
She groaned. "Ugh, fine. I might know a little. A very little. Let me see…"
Cecilia leaned in, tracing the script with her eyes. Her brow furrowed. "It's ancient. Older than Latin. Some kind of pre-Roman dialect, maybe Enochian or something similar. Let's see… it says:
'Whosoever enters the Circle must offer their blood,
That the passage may open once more,
And they be accepted into... the Ring of Glory.'"
"That's… all I can translate," she finished quietly.
Tyler ran a hand through his hair. "So we have to bleed to open the door again?"
"I don't know," Cecilia snapped. "That's just what it says."
Kyle, meanwhile, had been staring at the center of the table. He pointed.
"Look at the middle. That indentation—see the edges? It's stained. Faintly, but definitely a brownish red."
They all leaned in.
"I have an idea," Kyle said, pulling out a small knife from Tyler's backpack. "It says 'blood,' but it doesn't say how much. Maybe just a few drops will do."
He pricked his index finger and let the crimson liquid drip into the hollow.
The reaction was immediate.
The runes along the stone glowed faintly red. A low rumble filled the chamber, as if the room itself had inhaled. Then—on Kyle's side of the table—a black ring slowly rose from the center, as if being presented by invisible hands. It gleamed with strange, metallic light. Symbols—unreadable, otherworldly—circled its band.
The three of them stood frozen, barely breathing.
Then Tyler took the knife and made his own cut, letting blood fall into the same groove.
A second ring emerged—identical, shadowy, mysterious.
Cecilia stared at them, then slowly held out her hand.
"Give it."
Tyler handed her the blade wordlessly. She did the same. Her ring surfaced moments later.
Three rings. Three bearers.
And now, the Circle was complete
Tyler's hand hovered above the ring, fingertips trembling.
Before he could grasp it, Cecilia grabbed his wrist.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked, her voice low, almost a whisper. Her eyes darted around the room, to the fire-lit walls, the unmoving stone door. "This house... it's not right. Nothing about this is right."
Tyler hesitated for a second, but his gaze didn't waver. "Do you have a better idea?"
That question, heavy with bitter truth, settled in her chest like a stone. She looked away, her hand falling limply back to her side.
"…No," she admitted quietly.
And so, one by one, they each took a ring from the table—black as shadow, etched with glowing runes no one could read.
A hush fell over the chamber as they slid the rings onto their fingers.
Nothing happened.
No sound. No light. No dramatic unlocking of the sealed door.
Just silence.
Kyle exhaled harshly, pacing toward the entrance. "Well, that was pointless. We followed the damn instructions—bled into the stone, wore the cursed rings. Still locked in."
He turned, frustration crackling in his voice. "Screw it. Let's just break the damn door."
But before they could move—
An invisible force slammed down upon them like the weight of a falling mountain.
Tyler cried out, stumbling to one knee. His body felt as if it had doubled in weight in an instant. Every breath burned in his lungs.
"What the hell—?!" he gasped, turning toward the others.
Kyle had collapsed, clutching at his chest, veins bulging beneath his skin.
And Cecilia—Cecilia was screaming.
Blood streamed from their eyes like tears of fire. Crimson trails fell freely, streaking down their cheeks.
"S-Stop it! Make it stop!" Tyler shouted, trying to reach Cecilia.
But then he saw her.
Her body convulsed violently, arching back unnaturally. Her scream cut through the air like glass. Her eyes—once a sharp amber—glowed molten silver. And her blood… it was no longer red. It had turned black, like ink boiling from her veins.
"No—Cecilia!!"
Tyler surged toward her, only to see Kyle suddenly jerk upward—screaming—as black chains burst from the ground like serpents. They coiled around him, dragging him backward, crushing his limbs with sickening cracks. The sound of bone breaking echoed across the stone.
Kyle's voice became a gurgling howl of agony.
"Stop it!! STOP!" Tyler roared, tears falling fast as he reached out with shaking hands.
But it was too late.
And then—it hit him.
The heat.
First a flicker, like someone had lit a match beside his skin. Then a growing burn. Then... an inferno. His body felt as if it were being scorched alive from within. The pain was instant, total, and incomprehensible.
But strangely—his clothes didn't catch fire. Nothing around him burned.
Only he did.
He dropped to the ground, writhing in agony. The scream that tore from his throat was primal—a sound born not of fear, but the full unraveling of a soul.
"I'M BURNING—GOD, I'M BURNING!"
His voice cracked.
"HELP ME!!"
But they were alone.
Each of them—trapped in a personal storm of torment, unable to see, to help, to reach one another.
And then, as quickly as it had begun...
Darkness.
The agony gave way to silence. The world folded inward.
And one by one, they fell.
Three bodies collapsed to the cold stone floor, rings still glowing faintly on their fingers, as the firelight dimmed... and the chamber consumed them.