The walls were bleeding.

Thick, dark liquid seeped from the cracks, dripping onto the warped floorboards. The air reeked of rust and damp rot. Thomas's breath came in short, panicked bursts as he stared at the door—his daughter was gone.

No. Not his daughter.

That thing had been wearing her face.

His boots stuck to the oozing floor as he stumbled backward. In his hands, the journal trembled, its leather cover damp with sweat. His name had been in the final entry—written in his own handwriting. But the ink was older than he was.

It didn’t make sense.

His back hit the desk. The carved seal beneath the journal pulsed, the wood beneath it warm, almost alive. The markings—Christian symbols entwined with something older—felt important. Crucial.

"You were always meant to be here."

The words echoed in his mind, making his pulse pound against his temples.

Then—

Creak.

Something shifted beyond the door.

Thomas swallowed hard. He had to get out. He shoved the journal into his coat pocket and turned, gripping the desk for support. His gaze flicked toward the window—a possible escape—only to find the outside world gone.

Nothing but darkness.

His stomach clenched.

Another sound. Soft, wet footsteps.

Coming closer.

"Daddy…"

The voice was just outside the door now. No longer a whisper.

The doorknob twisted. The wood rattled in its frame.

Thomas backed away, heart hammering. The door creaked open—

Empty hallway.

The bleeding walls pulsed. Shadows stretched, reaching for him.

And then—

A single Polaroid fluttered to the ground.

Thomas hesitated before kneeling, fingers shaking as he picked it up. The image was faded, warped by time, but he recognized the man in it.

Himself.

The date beneath it read: 1927.

His chest tightened. His head throbbed. This isn’t real.

Another photo fell. Then another.

Each one showed him, standing in this house—decades apart—but always the same. The same tired eyes. The same solemn expression.

And in every photo, a hand rested on his shoulder.

A woman’s hand.

Black veins creeping up her fingers.

Thomas's stomach twisted. He dropped the photos, his hands clammy.

"You have always belonged to me, Thomas."

The voice slithered around him.

The study door slammed shut.

The journal burned against his ribs as he yanked it free, flipping through the brittle pages. There had to be something—anything that made sense.

Then, he found it.

December 20, 1927

The seal holds, but the house has turned against me. The past is bending, warping—I see my own face in places I should not.

She is preparing.

If I fail, she will find another.

Thomas’s breath hitched. The past is bending?

Was he the next in line?

His eyes darted to the final entry—the one written in his own hand. It was just one sentence.

"You were always meant to be here."

His throat tightened. He turned the page.

Another passage.

The ink was fresh.

And this time, it wasn’t Marcus’s handwriting.

It was his daughter’s.

Break the seal, Daddy.

Thomas felt sick. He slammed the book shut.

The air turned heavy, pressing down on him. The walls seemed to close in.

A choice.

The seal kept something trapped. Mara. A demon that fed on “righteous souls.” But the journal hinted that something else was imprisoned too.

His daughter?

"No," he whispered, gripping his skull.

She was gone. He had buried her. He had—

A sob echoed from beyond the door.

Soft. Fragile.

"Please, Daddy… I’m so scared."

Thomas’s resolve cracked. His daughter had been afraid in her final moments. Alone. Burning. He hadn’t been able to save her then.

Was she here now? Trapped?

His vision blurred.

"Just open the door. I can’t get out."

His hand moved before he could stop it.

Fingers trembling, he reached for the knob—

And hesitated.

The journal’s words screamed at him. Deception.

The sobbing stopped.

Dead silence.

Then—

A click.

Polaroids rained from the ceiling, hitting the floor like falling leaves. They landed at his feet, a collage of his own face, twisted in horror, spanning a century.

And in every single one, standing just behind him—

Was her.

Black veins curled up her arms, her smile stretching too wide.

The sobbing wasn’t his daughter.

His stomach dropped.

The whisper returned, lower now. Amused.

"Almost, Thomas."

His hand ripped away from the doorknob.

NO.

A furious screech erupted from the walls, shaking the entire house. Shadows clawed toward him.

The seal.

It was the only thing keeping this thing contained. If he gave in—if he opened the door—

It would wear her face forever.

His eyes darted to the window. Before, there had been nothing but blackness. But now—now, he saw something.

A light.

Flickering. Distant but real.

A way out.

Heart pounding, Thomas ran.

He hurled himself at the window. Glass shattered around him as he fell through the darkness—

And landed on solid ground.

Cold, wet grass pressed against his palms. He gasped, chest heaving. The air was still thick with something wrong—but the house…

It was gone.

Vanished.

Only the roadside shrine remained, its inverted crosses swaying in the night breeze. The statues still wept black.

And his car—

His car was fixed.

As if nothing had happened.

But something had changed.

Thomas pressed a shaking hand to his chest. His heartbeat was wrong.

Off.

He pulled his collar down.

A scar.

Thin. Faint.

Right over his heart.

His hands trembled. The journal lay beside him in the grass, its pages fluttering in the wind.

He picked it up.

The last entry was gone.

His name erased.

In its place, a new passage—written in fresh ink.

The first seal is broken.

Thomas’s breath hitched.

He looked up at the sky, the night stretching vast and endless above him.

And then—

The stars blinked.

Like watching eyes.