Nina inherited the house from her grandmother, a woman she barely knew—cold, reclusive, with deep-cut scars always hidden under sleeves.
The house was old. Too quiet. Too clean.
Except for one thing: the basement door was nailed shut with rusted, bloodstained nails.
The letter her grandmother left said only:
"Do not enter. The blood remembers."
Nina, being stubborn, pulled the nails out one night—telling herself they were stained by rust, not dried flesh. The wood creaked like it hadn't been touched in decades.
The basement was pitch black. Even her flashlight seemed to dim the further she went, like the darkness was feeding on it.
At the bottom of the stairs, she found a room.
The walls were coated with layers of dried blood—thick enough to look like red clay.
And in the center, a stone bowl, filled with blood that was still warm.
She should've run. But something inside whispered:
"Touch it. Your blood knows. It remembers."
She reached out.
The moment her finger touched the liquid, her vision blurred—and suddenly, she wasn't herself anymore.
She saw her grandmother, young, chained to the wall.
Men in robes chanting.
Blood taken, blood spilled.
Sacrifice.
She screamed.
She tried to pull her hand away—but it was stuck.
The blood bubbled.
It wasn't a bowl.
It was a mouth.
It drank from her. Bit her skin without teeth. She finally tore away, hand numb, skin split open. The wound didn't bleed. Instead, it hissed—like steam escaping from deep within her body.
She stumbled upstairs, slamming the basement door behind her.
But something had followed.
The walls began to weep blood.
Not drip. Weep.
It poured from every crack. The floors were slick. The house pulsed—alive, aware.
In the mirror, she saw her own eyes turn red.
Not dyed—glowing.
And from inside her head came a voice:
"Now you remember. Now you bleed."
---
Nina was never seen again.
But the house remained.
The new owner painted the walls. Changed the locks. Ignored the smell.
He says some nights, when the lights are off, he hears crying from the basement. Not voices—just wet, gurgling sobs.
And every morning, without fail, he finds a small puddle of blood at the foot of the stairs.