Darkness swallowed him whole.

Thomas sucked in a sharp breath, his body rigid as the lantern’s last flicker died. Silence pressed in—thick, suffocating.

Then, a whisper, slithering through the air like a breath against his ear.

"You finally came back."

His fists clenched. It’s not real. It couldn’t be. His daughter—his dead daughter—had stood at the top of the stairs, speaking in a voice that should have been lost forever. But this house, this thing, was playing with him.

He stepped back, his boots scuffing against the wooden floorboards. The walls groaned as if shifting, breathing. The air was damp with decay, thick with the stench of something rotten.

Then came the sound.

Creeeak.

His stomach tightened. The stairs.

Something was moving.

His gaze shot upward. The second-floor landing was an abyss of shadows, but within that darkness, something stirred. Slow, deliberate steps. Bare feet pressing against old wood.

Then, her voice again.

“Daddy, break the seal. I’m trapped here.”

His knees nearly buckled. His heart slammed against his ribs.

No. This isn’t real.

His fingers fumbled for his phone, shaking as he pressed the power button. The screen flared to life—a weak blue glow. 7% battery. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

He lifted it toward the stairs.

Empty.

Nothing.

But he could feel it. That weight. That presence. Watching. Waiting.

His breath hitched. He needed to get out. Now.

A whisper curled through the silence.

"You're so close."

A door at the end of the hallway creaked open.

Thomas knew he should leave. Every nerve in his body screamed for him to turn back, to burn this place to the ground.

But his feet moved on their own.

The door yawned open, revealing a study. An old wooden desk sat in the center, surrounded by sagging bookshelves. The air reeked of aged paper and mildew.

And on the desk, beneath a thick layer of dust, lay a leather-bound journal.

His fingers hesitated before brushing against its cracked cover. Nearly falling apart at the seams. But the name embossed on the front made his breath catch.

Father Marcus.

A tightness gripped his chest.

His gaze dropped to the desk beneath it. A symbol had been carved deep into the wood—an intricate seal of Christian and occult markings.

A cross. A circle. Inverted runes. The same inverted cross from the shrine.

And one word, smeared in something dark:

MARA.

His pulse pounded.

Another whisper, curling around him like smoke.

"God led you here to finish Marcus’s work."

Thomas swallowed hard, forcing himself to open the journal. The pages were brittle, stained with something dark. The handwriting was elegant yet frantic, growing more erratic toward the final entries.

December 4, 1927

The thing in the house speaks to me now. It knows my name. It knows my past.

It wears the face of my mother.

December 10, 1927

The seal holds, but it is weakening. She is weakening it. I hear them at night—the voices of the lost, crying for release. But it is deception.

If the seal breaks, she will not free them. She will wear them.

December 15, 1927

She is whispering to me now, telling me I am the last. That my suffering can end if I surrender.

But I know the truth.

This house is a mouth.

If I fail, it will open.

Thomas’s breath came shallow and uneven. The journal trembled in his grip.

Then, his stomach dropped.

The final entry wasn’t in Father Marcus’s handwriting.

It was in his own.

Thomas—

You were always meant to be here.

A shiver crawled down his spine.

His own name. Written in ink. In a journal from nearly a century ago.

The room suddenly felt smaller, as if the walls were inching closer. His throat went dry. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

Then, the whisper changed.

It wasn’t a whisper anymore.

It was her.

"Please, Daddy. Break the seal."

A slow, rhythmic creaking filled the air.

Thomas turned his head.

The study door was swinging shut.

And standing behind it, half-hidden in shadow—

Was his daughter.

The stuffed rabbit dangled limply from her fingers. Her face was pale, her eyes too dark.

She smiled.

The door slammed.

The lanterns roared to life.

And then—

The walls began to bleed.