Phantom House

Silence. An eerie calm, unsettling in the aftermath of such blood-curdling horror. The house was empty, as if nothing were out of the ordinary—except for the blood. Blood, everywhere—splattering walls, staining every visible surface, until the very air was filthied with the metallic taste of it. The floor was slicked with scarlet like the inside of a slaughterhouse, tainting the pristine marble beneath your feet. A sickly, saccharine aroma of roses clung to the air, mingling with the cloying scent of blood.

Then—footsteps. Soft, almost imperceptible taps from above you—the attic. Fear’s icy fingers tightened their grip around your throat, sending shockwaves down your spine. The noises paused… then started again. You almost missed it, the muffled noise nearly drowned out by the violent beating of your heart.

Your heart, still alive, still pumping blood. Blood that had yet to be added to the crimson canvas of the house. Your heart, waiting to be squeezed until yet another ruby fountain melded with the incarnadine ocean of crushed lives.

The footsteps grew louder, almost like a warning, almost as if they were counting down to the very moment you’d breathe your last. You knew what entering this house meant for you. Knew it entailed the inevitable blowing out of the candle of your life. Only—something wasn’t adding up. Why were you still standing, alive and unharmed, when you knew you shouldn’t be?