When we arrived, the door was already half open, creaking like it was whispering “don’t.” Dust caked the handle like it hadn’t been touched in decades, and the wind whistled through the cracks in the boarded-up windows like a breath held too long.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Kris muttered, adjusting the silver cross around his neck.

“You always say that,” Merrisa said, stepping in first with her bible tucked snug in her jacket. “But you keep coming.”

He smirked, following behind her. “Maybe I just like flirting with death.”

I was third, boots crunching on broken glass, my pouch of salt pressed tightly in my grip. The air inside was thick—like soup made of mildew and regret. Carla and Jack came in last. Carla clutched her holy water like it was a teddy bear, a strand of ginger tied around her belt swinging as she moved. She was muttering under her breath, probably a prayer or a threat. Jack, meanwhile, looked like he just came for the vibes.

“No flashlight?” I asked him.

“Nah,” he said. “Ghosts are more fun in the dark.”

There were five. A strange mix of bravery, belief, and bad ideas. Merrisa, twenty, with her third eye and soft voice. Kris, twenty-seven, bold and blunt with a habit of throwing hands at shadows. Jack, thirty, too chill for someone with zero spiritual protection. Carla, twelve, the baby of the group—dragged into this world of curses and cries but tougher than half the adults I knew. And me, Aves, twenty-five, with nothing but salt and a calling. My job was to talk to the dead.

We made our way through the entry hall of the Cold House. That’s what the locals called it. Nobody knew its real name. No signs, no mail, no history. Just the stories: strange lights, whispered cries, sudden deaths. It had been empty for years. Until now.

“This place feels… full,” Merrisa whispered, pausing. Her eyes glazed for a moment, like she was watching something just over our shoulders.

“Yeah?” Jack asked, stretching. “Tell ‘em we come in peace.”

"Carla, your job." She pointed at you.

(MY OCS)