When Ezra opened his eyes dizzy, everything was black. Not the soft dark of a room at night—this was the kind that swallows shape and air alike.
He sat up slowly. The wooden floor creaked beneath him, each step answering with its own hollow click. Somewhere outside, something moved—the dry crack of branches, the distant cry of an animal that didn't sound quite right.
He called out, his voice too loud in the emptiness."Hello? Is anybody there?"
Nothing. Only the sound of the house breathing around him.
He took a careful step forward. The floor answered again—click…click…like the echo of footsteps that weren't his own.
Then, far ahead near the window, a dim glow wavered to life. A candle. Half melted, its flame trembling like it was afraid to exist.
Ezra moved toward it, hands brushing the cold wall for balance. The light quivered, throwing warped shadows over the ceiling beams. For a heartbeat he thought he saw movement beyond the window—someone standing in the fog outside.
A tall shape. Still. Watching.
The figure flickered, then broke apart—vanishing like a signal cut from an old screen.
He froze, heart pounding. The only sound was the faint hiss of the candle burning lower.
"Okay… easy," he whispered to himself. "Find a door, get out."
He took the candle carefully, its wax hot against his fingers, and turned to search the room.
But there wasn't a door.
There were walls—too many of them—meeting in angles that didn't make sense. Each time he thought he'd found the way he came in, he found only another corner, another wall.
His breath came fast. Sweat rolled down his temple despite the cold.
He backed into the hallway, the candlelight shuddering in his grip. The air was getting thinner, colder.
Then he saw it—a narrow staircase winding upward into deeper dark.
The candle was almost gone, its flame guttering.
Step by step, he climbed. Each board groaned underfoot, each breath visible in the freezing air.
At the top, the hallway stretched long, lined with doors. All closed. All silent.
He tried the first—locked.The second—locked.
Then, from the end of the hall, one door opened by itself. A slow creak that felt deliberate.
The temperature dropped so sharply that his skin prickled.
He turned to look behind him—nothing.No footsteps. No sound. Just a sharp, stinging bite at the back of his neck, quick as static. He flinched, spun around—no one there. Only the fading candle shaking in his hand.
He pressed his fingers to his neck; they came away damp, but he knew it was blood drips. But in the half-light he couldn't tell with what biten him.
The open door waited.
He forced himself forward.
Inside, the room glowed faintly with an amber hue—as if lit from somewhere beneath the floorboards.
Two small shapes sat near the center. Toddlers, their backs turned to him, playing quietly with something he couldn't see. The sound of their laughter was wrong—looped, mechanical, as if the same second kept repeating.
"Hey…" Ezra's voice trembled. "Are you alright?"
Neither child turned. The toy in their hands clicked once, twice.
He took one more step into the room.
The candle went out.
And the laughter stopped.