Donald stood in the ruins of the ritual chamber, his breathing ragged. The air had grown unnaturally still, the oppressive weight of the house lifting ever so slightly. But he knew it wasn't over.
The house wasn't going to let him go so easily.
A deep, guttural groan echoed through the walls, like the house itself was alive-and angry.
The wooden beams above creaked, dust falling from the ceiling. The very structure of the house was shifting, trying to trap him inside.
Donald turned, sprinting toward the stairs.
The doorway was gone.
In its place was a solid wall of rotting wood, as if the house had swallowed the exit.
Panic surged through him.
It was toying with him.
The spirits may have been freed, but the house was still awake. And now, it had only one soul left to claim.
Donald's mind raced.
The house was changing, its layout warping and twisting like a living organism. Hallways stretched into darkness, doors vanished, and in their place... mirrors.
Hundreds of mirrors, lining the walls in every direction.
Each reflection was wrong.
In some, his face wasn't his own-a hollow-eyed stranger stared back. In others, he wasn't there at all.
Then, in the largest mirror at the end of the corridor, he saw her.
Melissa Blackwood.
The woman who had started it all.
Her reflection was clearer than the rest, standing in the ritual chamber, dressed in dark ceremonial robes. She raised a hand and gestured for him to come closer.
Donald hesitated.
His gut told him that stepping toward that mirror was exactly what the house wanted.
But he had no other choice.
As he reached out, the surface of the mirror rippled, pulling him through like liquid glass.
Donald stumbled forward and found himself somewhere else.
The air was thick with candle smoke, the walls lined with occult symbols that pulsed like living veins. The ritual chamber was intact, no longer a ruined relic but a space frozen in time.
And around him, the Blackwood family stood in a circle.
Not spirits. Not echoes.
They were alive.
Melissa stood at the center, holding an ancient-looking book, her lips moving in a whisper.
watched in horror as the ritual that had doomed them all played out before his eyes.
The family chanted in unison, their voices rising, the energy in the room shifting. But something went wrong.
The air cracked, a force far greater than them pushing back.
The symbols on the walls burned, turning black.
The family screamed, their souls ripped from their bodies, sucked into the house itself.
Donald felt it.
The hunger.
The house had never belonged to them. They belonged to the house.
It had tricked them just as it was tricking him.
The scene dissolved around him, and Donald fell backward, crashing through another mirror.
He hit the floor of the real house, gasping for air.
The truth was clear now.
The house was never about the Blackwoods.
They had tried to control it, and in doing so, they had sealed their fate.
The house had existed long before them.
It was ancient. A being, not a building.
It had consumed every soul that entered.
And now, it wanted him.
Donald pushed himself up. He had only one Chance.
The house was collapsing.
The mirrors shattered, the floors cracked open, and the walls bent inward like a great mouth closing in.
Donald ran.
Every door led to a dead end.
Every hallway twisted in on itself.
Then, he saw it
A single window, still intact.
With no time to think, he lunged.
The glass shattered around him as he tumbled through
And then
Darkness.
Donald awoke on the cold, damp ground outside.
The house was gone.
Not destroyed. Not in ruins.
Just... gone.
As if it had never existed.
The only evidence that remained was the deep scars on Donald's arms, where something unseen had tried to pull him back.
He looked at the empty lot, the sky above eerily calm.
He had survived.
But he knew the truth.
The house wasn't destroyed.
It had simply moved on, waiting for its next victim.
And somewhere, in some distant place-
It was still awake.
Still hungry.
Months later, Donald published his book.
He titled it The House That Never Sleeps.
It became a best-seller.
People praised it as a terrifying horror story.
But Donald never smiled at the reviews.
Because he knew the truth.
It wasn't a story.
It was a warning.
And somewhere, someone else was already hearing whispers in the walls, feeling cold fingers in the dark.
Another soul, another sacrifice.
Because the house was never gone.
It was just waiting.
For the next visitor to stay past midnight.
----
To be continued....