Malcolm threw his shoulder against the door once more, the force reverberating up his arm and into his ribs. The impact sent a dull ache through his muscles, but the door did not budge. He stepped back, panting, staring at the solid, unmoving wood as if sheer willpower alone could make it yield. His breath fogged in the cold air, curling toward the ceiling before vanishing. Inside, Ronan was silent. Malcolm wiped the sweat from his brow, his pulse thrumming hard against his skull. He pressed his ear to the door, hoping to catch some indication that Ronan was still there, still breathing, still fighting. But there was nothing. Only the thick, unnatural quiet that had overtaken the house like a disease.


    He braced himself and slammed his shoulder into the door again. Harder this time. It rattled in its frame but did not give. Something about the resistance felt wrong as if the door wasn’t merely locked but held shut by something unseen, something far stronger than any deadbolt. The house felt heavier now, pressing in from all sides, its breath thick with damp rot and something older. The sound of footsteps ascending the stairs made him turn. Marigold appeared first, her face pale, dark circles bruising the skin beneath her eyes. Elle followed a moment later, moving with an eerie stillness as if she already knew what she would find. Her gaze flicked from Malcolm to the door, her lips slightly parted, and then she took a slow breath.


    "What happened?" Marigold asked, rubbing her arms as though she could banish the chill that had settled into her bones.


    "It won’t open," Malcolm said, voice hoarse. "It just won’t open."


    Marigold’s eyes darted between him and the door. "Is he—did you hear anything?"


    "No." Malcolm swallowed, forcing down the bile creeping up his throat. "Nothing."


    Elle stepped forward. She placed a hand against the door, fingers splayed, almost reverent. Her eyelids fluttered shut for a moment, and when she opened them, something dark and hollow lurked behind her gaze.


    "He’s gone," she said quietly.


    Marigold recoiled. "Don’t fucking say that."


    "I’m not saying it to be cruel." Elle turned her gaze to her, voice flat, almost too calm. "I’m saying it because it’s the truth."


    "We don’t know that," Malcolm snapped. "We don’t know what’s happening in there."


    Elle exhaled slowly as if trying to be patient as if explaining something obvious to a child. "You’re thinking about this like it’s normal. Like we’re still dealing with doors and locks and rooms that behave the way they should. We’re not. We never were."


    The words settled like dust, heavy and choking. Marigold crossed her arms, her nails digging into her skin. "So what? We just leave him? We just—just accept it?"


    Elle tilted her head slightly, considering. "Do you think we have a choice?"


    No one answered. The weight of it pressed into them, into their bones, into the spaces between their ribs. The house was making the rules now. And it did not care what they wanted.


    Malcolm let out a slow, shuddering breath, his shoulders slumping. "So what do we do?"


    "We wait," Elle said simply. "We let it play out."


    Malcolm clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists. He hated how she said it, how easy she made it sound. But deep down, he knew she was right.


    They had never been in control. And now, the house was making sure they understood that.


    Malcolm exhaled sharply, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes as if the pressure might steady him, might silence the frustration clawing up his throat. The house was making the rules now. The words rattled in his skull, each syllable scraping against the raw edges of his fear. He hated it. He hated all of it. His fingers twitched at his sides, restless, searching for something—anything—they could do. Waiting felt like surrender, like sitting still in the wake of a slow-moving disaster, watching it creep closer and pretending there was nothing to be done. His breath left him in a quiet growl, and then he turned back to the door.


    "No," he muttered. "I refuse." He braced his foot against the floor, squared his shoulders, and threw himself against the door again, putting every ounce of weight behind it. A sickening crack rippled through his bones, the impact jarring up his spine, but the door didn’t even groan in its frame.


    Marigold flinched at the sound. "Mal—"


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Again. He rammed into the wood, shoulder-first, ignoring the way his joints screamed in protest. Still, the door stood firm, solid as stone, as if it had been built into the very foundation of the house itself. A sharp breath. Another. A curse bit through clenched teeth.


    "We could break the hinges," Marigold said suddenly. Her voice was thin but urgent, grasping. "If we can’t break the door, maybe we take it apart instead. Get something to pry it off."


    Malcolm nodded once, too fast, latching onto the idea like it was a lifeline. "There’s a toolbox in the kitchen—"


    "It won’t work," Elle interrupted.


    Both of them turned toward her. She wasn’t looking at them—her eyes were still on the door. She didn’t even seem fully present, like something inside her was listening, feeling, searching for something unseen.


    "Elle," Malcolm pressed, voice tight with exhaustion. "We have to at least try."


    She didn’t argue. But she didn’t agree, either.


    Marigold turned on her heel before Elle could say anything else, heading for the stairs. "I’ll get the tools."


    She made it two steps before the hallway lights flickered, casting the shadows around them into unnatural shapes. The air shifted, subtly at first—a slow tightening, a barely perceptible pressure curling around the edges of their lungs. And then, like a tide rolling in, it swelled. The temperature dropped, the walls narrowing, the weight of the house pressing into their ribs like unseen hands, curling around their throats, seeping into their skin. The lights above them dimmed further, pulsing as if the house itself had started to breathe.


    Marigold stopped dead in her tracks, arms stiff at her sides. "Oh, fuck," she whispered.


    Malcolm’s pulse roared in his ears. The moment stretched long and empty between them, the silence pressing into the spaces between heartbeats.


    Elle finally stepped back from the door, slow and measured. She met Malcolm’s eyes, her own dark and hollow.


    "Do you feel it now?" she asked softly.


    Malcolm swallowed against the dryness in his throat. The house wasn’t just keeping them out. The weight of it all settled over them, cold and crushing. There was nothing left to try. No tricks, no strength, no plan. It was useless. Marigold’s shoulders trembled before she even realized she was shaking. Her breath hitched once, and then she crumpled, sinking to the floor with her hands clutched to her face. The first sob was nearly silent, swallowed whole by the oppressive stillness.


    "He''s gone," she whispered. "Ronan is gone."


    Neither Malcolm nor Elle said anything. What could they say? The floor beneath Malcolm’s feet felt unsteady as if the very foundation of the house had shifted. He forced a breath through his teeth, forcing himself to move, to do something, anything. His throat was dry. He needed water. Without another word, he turned and headed for the stairs, his steps hollow against the floorboards. He barely made it out of earshot before Marigold heard it.


    A voice. Soft. Familiar. "Marigold."


    Her breath caught in her throat, her body going rigid. She turned, eyes wide, searching the shadows.


    "Marigold," Ronan’s voice came again, barely above a whisper. Low. Beckoning. Coming from the other side of the hallway. But not from where she had last heard him. Not where he should be.


    Marigold stood slowly, her breath uneven, her limbs heavy. The voice was soft, coaxing, curling at the edges of the dark like a thread waiting to be pulled.


    "Marigold."


    She glanced toward the others. Malcolm was already gone, his footsteps fading into the lower floor. Elle stood at the end of the hall, silent, unmoving. Watching. Not with concern. Not with fear. With something else. The way her chin tilted ever so slightly downward. The way her lips pressed together just so. The way her eyes—those dull, knowing eyes—fixed on her like a dingo watching a baby left too close to the edge of the den. Waiting. Marigold swallowed. She could feel it—whatever was happening, whatever force had its fingers in this house, it was toying with her. Luring her away from the others like a fish on a hook. But what else was she supposed to do? Stand still? Wait for the walls to close in further, for the house to swallow them all whole?


    She turned back to the hallway, toward the voice. It wasn’t coming from Ronan’s door anymore. It was further now. Deeper. Marigold took a step. Elle didn’t move, didn’t stop her. The voice called again.


    "Marigold. Please."


    She moved forward, the hallway stretching longer with each step. The walls on either side loomed closer, the dim bulbs above flickering weakly, casting trembling shadows. She passed the closed doors one by one, each one silent, each one watching her with its absent mouth.


    Then, she reached it. An open door. A room she didn’t remember seeing before.


    The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of dust and something older, something damp and rotting beneath the surface. The darkness pooled heavier here, sinking into the corners like it had been waiting for her to step inside. And in the farthest corner, just barely visible in the gloom—


    Ronan. He stood stiff, his arms hanging limp at his sides, his shadow stretching the wrong way, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. His clothes were the same. His hair was the same. But something was wrong.


    She hesitated, her fingers curling into her sleeves. "Ronan?"


    He didn’t move. She took another step. The floor creaked beneath her weight, and at the sound, his head jerked slightly, just enough for his chin to lift, just enough for her to see the gleam of his teeth through the dim light. Her stomach twisted. The voice came again, barely above a whisper.


    "Close the door."


    Marigold''s breath hitched. The door slammed shut behind her. She gasped, whirling to face it, her fingers fumbling for the knob. She twisted, yanked—nothing. It wouldn’t budge. Her heart pounded, her breath coming fast and shallow. And then—


    A breath. Hot and wet against her neck. She turned back. Ronan wasn’t in the corner anymore. He was right in front of her. His lips had peeled back, his mouth stretching wider and wider, the skin at the edges splitting, tearing, opening into something far too large, something inhuman. The cavern of his throat was pitch-black, yawning and bottomless, a chasm of writhing shadows and the faint glisten of teeth, so many teeth—


    A sound built in his throat, something guttural, something wet.


    Marigold screamed.