Carter always wanted more. More money, more status, more sparkle to his name. Tonight, the decaying mansion on Blackthorn Hill seemed his ticket—rumored to house hidden riches. Its sagging walls exhaled a damp musk, and the air hung heavy with mildew and rot, as though the house itself were breathing. Somewhere, water dripped with an irregular rhythm, each plink like an unseen heartbeat.
In the parlor, a tarnished mirror caught his eye. Its surface shimmered unnaturally as he approached, cracks spidering out like veins. Carter chuckled at his own jittery reflection before noticing something—his face didn’t follow when he moved. Instead, his double stared back solemnly before lifting a finger, pointing downward.
Beneath the mirror rested a trapdoor. He hesitated, the memory of the reflection’s warning gnawing at him. But greed surged, silencing doubt. Whatever lay below had to be valuable. He pried it open, the iron handle cold and slick against his palm.
A vault-like chamber awaited, lit dimly by a faint, sickly glow. Relief bubbled; inside were heaps of gold coins. He stepped down, savoring the metallic tang that thickened the air. Chest heaving, he snatched a handful and let them clink through his fingers. When nothing happened, he laughed. Easy.
Then he noticed the silence. The dripping had stopped. The glow began shifting, pulsating like a predator’s breath. Behind him, the trapdoor slammed shut.
The walls stretched grotesquely, and the air grew solid as shadows poured from the corners. They peeled from the surfaces, coalescing into a figure devoid of features. It leaned down, its whisper low and guttural, smelling of burnt hair and decay.
Carter reached for the coins. They crumbled to rust in his hands.
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