Emma scrambled up the narrow stairs, breathless.
The candle had long gone out, but her body remembered each bend, each step, by instinct alone.
When she finally reached the hallway, the house had fallen strangely quiet. But it wasn't the kind of silence that soothed—it was the heavy, breathless calm that came before a storm.
She slipped into her room without a sound, closed the door, and leaned against it.
In her palm, she still clutched the spiral pendant.
It pulsed against her skin like a second heartbeat.
The house was breathing again. She could hear it.
Something shifted beneath the floorboards.
Something… else.
—
The next morning, Emma appeared in the living room with dark circles under her eyes. Jessica sat by the window, staring into the forest. Gréta paced the room, tension in every movement. Nóra clutched a yellowed book in her lap, something she must've found in the house.
The air was tight with unease.
"My photos are gone," Jessica said suddenly.
Gréta stopped.
"What photos?"
Jessica waved a hand irritably.
"From last night. The ones I took out the window. Of the fog… and… something else."
Emma looked up.
"Something else?"
Jessica's eyes widened.
"I don't remember exactly. But something was there. At the edge of the forest. And now the photo is gone."
Gréta shrugged.
"Maybe you deleted it by accident."
Jessica nearly leapt from her chair.
"I didn't delete anything! The house did it!"
Silence fell over the room.
They all knew something wasn't right—
But no one wanted to say it aloud.
Nóra looked up from the book. Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Someone… was standing next to my bed last night."
Emma froze.
Gréta let out a hollow laugh.
"Maybe you dreamed it."
Nóra shook her head.
"I didn't. I felt its breath. Cold."
Jessica shivered.
And Emma knew: the house had started working on them.
It wanted to break them apart.
Isolate them.
And then… consume them.
The tension thickened.
Gréta stood with her arms crossed, jaw tight.
Jessica drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair.
Emma watched them.
The fear was there—but it wasn't directed outward anymore.
It was turning inward. Toward each other.
"Someone opened my window last night," Jessica said suddenly. "The fog came in from above."
Gréta scoffed.
"You probably left it open."
Jessica's eyes flashed.
"You don't care about anything, do you? You think we're all just imagining things."
"Because you are!" Gréta snapped. "It's just a damn house—full of dust and wind!"
"Then go into the woods alone," Nóra said quietly.
Gréta's face twisted.
"Maybe I will!" she shouted, storming toward the door.
Emma jumped to her feet.
"Don't! Don't go out there!" she pleaded.
Gréta turned, glared.
"Why? Scared to be alone with your nightmares?"
Her words cut Emma like needles.
The walls of the room seemed to close in.
The house was breathing.
The house was enjoying the unraveling.
Emma knew: if they let Gréta leave now, something terrible would happen.
But the words wouldn't come.
She could only watch as Gréta stormed out the door.
Jessica shook her head, tears in her eyes.
Nóra looked down.
And Emma remained—gripping the pendant that now burned hot in her palm—
alone in the thickening silence.
The spiral was wrapping around them.
Slowly.
Surely.
And there was no turning back.