The narrow staircase seemed endless, winding down into the very belly of the house. Each step Clara and Liam took was met with a low groan from the walls, as if the manor itself mourned their intrusion. The air grew colder with every footfall, thick with moisture and the faint metallic scent of blood. It was a smell Clara had come to associate with the house—a reminder of the many sacrifices it had demanded over the centuries.
Their flashlights barely pierced the oppressive darkness, casting long, twitching shadows along the crumbling stone. Clara's heart pounded heavily in her chest, but she forced herself to focus. Every instinct screamed at her to turn back, to escape the tightening grip of the house while she still could. But she knew that this was the only way forward.
"We're close," Clara whispered, her voice swallowed almost instantly by the darkness.
Liam, walking just behind her, nodded grimly. "I can feel it. Like the walls are… breathing."
Clara didn't respond, but she felt it too. The house wasn't just dying—it was fighting back. Its pulse, once steady and oppressive, now throbbed erratically, like a wounded animal lashing out in desperation.
Finally, the staircase opened into a wide cavernous vault. Ancient stone pillars, slick with damp, stretched toward a ceiling lost in darkness. At the center of the room stood a massive door, carved with the same strange symbols that Clara had seen throughout the manor—sigils of binding, of sacrifice, of eternal life bought with blood.
"This is it," Clara said, stepping cautiously toward the door. "The heart of the curse. Everything started here."
Liam moved beside her, studying the carvings with a wary eye. "How do we open it?"
Clara hesitated. "We don't open it. We destroy it."
At her words, the ground beneath them trembled. A low rumbling sound filled the chamber, and a cold wind, unnatural and biting, whipped through the air. From the shadows, figures began to emerge—half-formed, wraith-like specters, the lost souls of the manor's victims. Their faces were twisted in eternal agony, their eyes hollow and accusing.
"They won't let us destroy it without a fight," Clara said grimly, stepping protectively in front of Liam.
The specters circled them, whispering in broken, disjointed voices. Clara could hear her name among the murmurs, could feel their hatred and despair like icy fingers clawing at her mind.
"We have to end this, now," Liam said, pulling a heavy iron rod from his backpack—a makeshift weapon he had salvaged earlier. Clara, too, gripped the jagged remains of a broken candlestick, feeling its weight anchor her trembling hands.
With a sudden, unearthly shriek, the specters attacked.
Clara swung wildly, the candlestick passing through the ghostly forms but dispersing them momentarily. Liam fought beside her, each blow buying them precious seconds. They moved together, back to back, inching closer to the cursed door.
As Clara ducked a lunging specter, she caught sight of something near the base of the door—an ancient brazier, its embers long cold. An inscription above it read:
"Blood given. Blood freed."
The final piece clicked into place.
"Liam!" she cried. "The brazier—we have to reignite it! That's the key!"
Without hesitation, Liam shoved a specter aside and lunged toward the brazier. He pulled a lighter from his pocket—one he had carried since the beginning of their ordeal—and flicked it to life. The tiny flame flickered desperately against the swirling darkness.
Clara fought to keep the specters at bay as Liam knelt by the brazier. He glanced at her, his meaning clear.
"It needs blood," Clara said hoarsely.
Without hesitation, she grabbed the shard of stone from her pocket—the last remnant of the pedestal—and sliced a shallow cut across her palm. Blood welled up instantly. She held her hand over the brazier, letting the blood drip into the cold ashes.
For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happened.
Then the brazier roared to life, a column of green fire shooting upward, searing away the encroaching specters. The wraiths shrieked and recoiled, vanishing into the walls. The cursed door groaned, ancient locks snapping open one by one.
The ground shook violently, and deep cracks splintered the floor beneath them.
"The house is collapsing!" Liam shouted.
Clara grabbed his hand. "We need to get inside—now!"
Together, they pushed the door open and stumbled into the inner sanctum of the house.
Inside was a sight more horrific than Clara had imagined: a vast pit stretched before them, filled with the bones of countless victims, their hollow eyes still fixed in silent screams. At the center of the pit stood a towering black tree, its twisted roots embedded deep into the earth, its bark slick with a dark, oozing substance that could only be blood.
"The Tree of Sacrifice," Clara breathed. It was the true source of the house's power, fed by generations of bloodshed.
"We destroy that," Liam said, his voice tight with horror and resolve, "and it's over."
The tree shuddered, as if aware of their intent. Dark tendrils shot out from its base, whipping toward them like living things. Clara and Liam ducked and dodged, scrambling over the unstable ground.
"We have to burn it!" Clara cried.
Liam nodded, setting his pack down and pulling out two makeshift Molotov cocktails they had prepared earlier—bottles filled with flammable liquids scavenged from the manor's ruined kitchens.
Clara lit the first one and hurled it with all her strength at the tree's base. It shattered, and fire leapt upward, catching the oily bark. Liam followed suit, his throw hitting higher on the trunk.
The tree screamed—a piercing, mind-rending sound that shook the walls and made Clara's vision blur. Flames consumed the twisted bark, black smoke billowing toward the ceiling.
The ground buckled violently.
"RUN!" Clara screamed, grabbing Liam's hand.
They sprinted back through the collapsing chamber, dodging falling debris as the entire foundation of the house gave way. The screams of the dying house followed them, a chorus of rage and agony.
Through the chaos, Clara glimpsed a light—daylight. The front doors, once sealed shut, now hung open, battered by the howling wind.
They burst out into the open air just as the manor behind them groaned one final time and imploded, sending a shockwave of dust and debris into the sky.
Clara collapsed onto the grass, gasping for breath. Beside her, Liam lay staring up at the sky, tears streaming down his face.
They had done it.
The house was dead.
The curse was broken.
For the first time in centuries, the Bennett family was free.