Chapter 4: The Blood-Stained Room

The crawlspace narrowed as Amara moved forward, the walls closing in on either side. Her breath echoed strangely in the tight corridor, like the house was exhaling with her, in rhythm. The wooden floorboards groaned under her boots, not from age—but from protest.

The light came from strange sconces—old iron brackets nailed into the walls, each holding a flickering candle. The flames didn’t move, even when she passed near them. They burned perfectly upright. Unnatural.

After what felt like ten minutes of silent walking, she reached a fork—left or right. But there were no signs. No marks. Just walls, doors, and the faint smell of something rotting deeper in the wood.

A low sound stopped her.

Crying.

Not loud. Not human.

It was the cry of something trying to remember how to be human.

Amara turned right, against every instinct in her body.

The hallway ended in a small door. Unlike the others, this one was painted—faded white, with peeling edges and red streaks that could have been rust… or something else. She pressed her hand to the knob.

It was warm.

She opened the door.

The room was small and square, lit by a cracked oil lantern that swung gently from a hook in the ceiling. Its light fell on the walls—and on the names written there.

Hundreds of them. Scratched into the plaster with nails or knives.

Some were old, barely legible. Others looked fresh. Too fresh.

In the center of the room was a child-sized bed with iron posts, rotting sheets, and a soaked mattress. Blood stained the center in a wide, blooming circle.

Amara backed away, heart hammering in her throat.

There was no dust here.

Someone had been here. Recently.

She turned to leave—and that’s when she saw the writing on the door, just above the frame.

It hadn’t been there before.

It read:

“She brought you here. She died here. And so will you.”

Amara stumbled back into the room. The door slammed shut behind her.

The lantern flickered violently.

Then, from the corner, something moved.

A figure.

Small. Thin. Barefoot.

A girl. No older than seven. Dressed in a nightgown stained with something dark.

Her head hung low, long black hair hiding her face.

She stood perfectly still.

Amara couldn’t breathe.

“Who... who are you?” she whispered.

The girl’s head twitched.

Once.

Twice.

Then she snapped it upright, revealing eyes as white as bone and a mouth stitched shut with black thread.

A Gurgling noise came from her throat as she raised one hand—and pointed behind Amara.

Amara turned.

The wall behind her was melting.

The plaster oozed down like wax, revealing something buried inside.

Flesh.

A hand. Human. Half-mummified, pressed into the wall like it had been buried there—alive.

And then it moved.

The fingers curled, weak but desperate, scratching something into the wood beneath.

Four letters.

HELP

Amara screamed.

She turned and kicked at the door, banging the poker against the frame until it splintered. The wood cracked and broke, and she stumbled back into the hall.

The crying stopped.

The lantern inside the room went out.

When she looked back...

The door was gone.

Just a blank wall.

Amara collapsed against the opposite wall, heart racing.

The house was changing.

Rearranging itself.

Playing with her.

And for the first time, Amara realized the truth:

This house didn’t just remember the people who had lived here.

It kept them.