The house had gone quiet again. Not silent—just... holding its breath.
Helena moved carefully through the crooked hallway. Every step creaked, as if the wood was whispering warnings in a language she couldn't understand.
The walls shifted in color—dull white fading to a sickly yellow, and then to a deep crimson. She didn't remember this hallway. It hadn't been there before.
At the end stood a single door.
Red.
Not faded red. Fresh. As if it had been painted moments ago.
The brass handle shimmered under the dim ceiling bulb. She reached for it.
It was warm.
Too warm.
She pulled her hand back.
From behind the door, she heard a voice.
"Helena... do you remember me?"
She gritted her teeth and opened it.
The hinges groaned like a scream.
Inside, the room was pitch black, except for a single beam of light falling onto a wooden desk covered in old hospital files.
She stepped in. The door shut behind her on its own.
She picked up the top file. Dust poured from its edges.
> PATIENT: ZARAAB ROOM: 313
Her hands shook.
The file had dates from decades ago. The notes were frantic:
> "Claims house is alive. Refuses to sleep. Keeps drawing eyes and mouths on the walls." "Says the house watches through mirrors."
Helena turned.
There was a mirror behind her.
But it didn't show her.
It showed the red hallway.
And a man.
Standing right behind her.
She spun around. No one there.
But in the mirror—he moved closer.
He smiled.
And whispered:
"I never left Room 313."
The mirror cracked.
Her phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN: "Stop opening doors."
The room began to shake. The red paint on the door peeled and bled like flesh.
The mirror shattered.
And in the reflection of every broken shard—Helena saw something different.
A version of herself.
Screaming.
Trapped.
Inside the house.