The red room

The metallic scent hit Lara before she even touched the light switch.

It curled into her lungs, sharp and heavy, dragging memories she didn’t want to remember.

The hallway floor glistened in the dim moonlight seeping through the broken window.

She stepped forward, her stiletto heel clicking against the wood, then stopped.

A dark, glossy pool spread across the boards.

She crouched down, her black leather skirt brushing against the wet surface.

Her fingers dipped into it before she could stop herself.

Warm. Thick. Sticky.

Blood.

Lara’s pulse quickened.

This house had been abandoned for ten years—ever since the fire and the screams.

She told herself it was impossible… yet the blood was still fresh.

She forced her eyes away from the floor and looked down the corridor.

At the end stood a door she had never seen before—deep crimson, almost breathing in the shadows.

Its brass handle gleamed unnaturally, slick as if someone had just touched it.

The air grew colder with every step she took.

Her breathing slowed. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.

When her fingertips slid over the handle, she felt something warm smear against her skin.

She brought her hand up. More blood.

The door creaked open on its own, a sound too slow, too deliberate, as if it had been waiting for her.

Inside, the walls were covered in jagged writing—letters carved deep into the wood, dripping scarlet.

One phrase repeated over and over, filling every inch of the room,

as if the house itself was whispering to her:

> “WELCOME BACK, LARA.”

The words seemed to pulse on the walls, alive and dripping, as if the house itself were breathing. Lara’s legs trembled, but she couldn’t step back. Her curiosity, mingled with fear, rooted her to the floor.

A sudden draft whispered through the room, rattling the broken window panes behind her. The cold air carried with it the faint scent of smoke, charred wood, and something… metallic. Something familiar. Something that belonged to her.

Her gaze swept the room. Shadows twisted in the corners, forming shapes that vanished when she blinked. Her reflection caught in a cracked mirror across the wall made her stop cold. But it wasn’t just her reflection—her eyes, once familiar and brown, glimmered with a blackness she had never seen before.

The floorboards groaned under her weight as she stepped further inside. Each footfall echoed unnaturally, like the house was counting her steps. The air felt thicker, almost suffocating, and every breath burned her throat.

Then she noticed them: small symbols scratched between the jagged letters, spiraling and jagged, almost like a language she didn’t recognize. But somehow, they felt… personal. Intimate. Like they had been waiting for her.

A soft whisper tickled her ear, sending shivers down her spine. She spun around, heart hammering, but the room was empty. The whisper came again, louder this time, a sibilant voice curling around her name:

> “Lara…”

Her knees threatened to buckle, but something inside her—something long buried—pulled her forward. She had to know. She had to see.

At the far corner, a small table stood, covered in dust and streaked with dark stains. On it lay an old photograph, edges singed, showing a girl with wide eyes and a trembling smile—her younger self. And behind that girl, faintly visible in the smoke-blurred background, was the crimson door.

Lara’s fingers hovered over the photograph, and the moment she touched it, a rush of memories crashed into her mind: screams in the night, fire licking at the walls, shadowy figures closing in, and a voice—an unfamiliar, commanding voice—calling her name. She fell to her knees, gasping, unable to tell where her memories ended and the house’s whispers began.

Then the door slammed shut behind her. The room plunged into darkness. Panic clawed at her chest as the shadows seemed to shift and swirl around her, forming shapes, faces, and hands that reached for her. The whispering grew louder, the words now chanting:

> “WELCOME BACK… WELCOME BACK…”

Lara’s breath hitched. She realized she was not just in a house. She was inside something alive. Something that remembered her. Something that had been waiting for her… all along.

Her pulse racing, she took a trembling step toward the center of the room, the photograph clutched to her chest. The door in front of her seemed to pulse, almost breathing, glowing faintly in the darkness. And then, in a voice that sounded both everywhere and nowhere, the house spoke:

> “It’s time to finish what you started, Lara.”

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