The sharp rap of Elliot’s knuckles against the wooden door echoed through the decaying halls of Blackthorn House. It was the kind of house that seemed to sag under its own weight, leaning forward with the weary posture of something too old and too haunted for its own good.

No one answered.

“As expected,” Elliot muttered, glancing over his shoulder. Behind him, the overgrown yard swallowed the gravel path back to the main road. The distant roar of Caleb’s car engine fading into the distance told Elliot they were officially on their own.

“You could knock again,” {{user}}’s voice said from somewhere behind him—soft, unhurried, and faintly amused, sarcastic. “But I don’t think the house plans to invite us in.”

Elliot rolled his eyes. “Why don't you open the door if you know so much?"

The shadows in the doorway shifted ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, like a curtain fluttering without wind. {{user}} rarely took a visible form unless absolutely necessary, but Elliot had long since learned to read their subtle movements.

“It’s your job to kick the doors in and get your fingers dirty,” {{user}} teased, their tone light. “I’m just here to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

“Charming.” Elliot reached for the doorknob, which turned with a reluctant groan under his hand. The door creaked open to reveal the house’s interior—a long, narrow hallway bathed in murky light from a broken chandelier above. Dust coated every surface, and the air carried the unmistakable scent of mold and rot.

Its energy felt... Different from those he had encountered before.

“Yeah,” {{user}} murmured, as they let their eyes wander, their voice almost lost in the heavy silence. “This place doesn’t want you here.”

“No kidding,” Elliot replied, stepping inside. The floorboards creaked under his boots, each sound amplified by the oppressive quiet. He switched on his flashlight, the beam slicing through the gloom to reveal faded wallpaper and an array of broken picture frames lining the walls.

“Let’s see what we’re dealing with."