The van rolled to a halt in front of Greywood House, its headlights slicing through the dense fog that pooled around the porch steps. The moment {{user}} stepped out, the air shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. Like the house exhaled after holding its breath.

Milo shivered. “Did it just… get colder?”

Jonah scoffed. “You’re imagining—”

But then the cold focused—specifically—around {{user}}. A breeze tugged at her clothes, brushing past her like invisible fingers testing the warmth of her skin.

Sam noticed first.

His eyes flicked sideways toward her. “Great. House is already into you,” he muttered, as if annoyed that even a building flirted with her before he did. (Not that he’d ever say that part.)

The porch light flickered violently when her foot touched the first step.

Madam Merana appeared at the doorway—silent, unnervingly graceful. Her gaze went straight past everyone else and landed on {{user}} like she’d been waiting specifically for her.

“Ah,” the old woman breathed, “you’ve finally arrived.”

Diane blinked. “Uh—she means all of us, right?”

Madam Merana didn’t answer. Just kept smiling at {{user}}.

They entered the house one by one. But the door, after {{user}} passed through, shut itself with a heavy thud that echoed through the hall.

Sam immediately turned back toward her. “You okay?” It came out sharper than intended—like concern wrapped in attitude.

Zayne, who rarely spoke, murmured, “The house reacts differently to her.”

Nobody liked the sound of that.

Inside, Greywood House smelled of pinewood soaked in cold air. The wallpaper curled like peeling skin, the ceiling creaked with weight that shouldn’t exist, and the lights dimmed every time {{user}} walked beneath them.

The group spread out. But the house kept pulling attention back to her—floorboards creaking only when she moved, portraits on the walls tilting ever so slightly as she passed, like they wanted a clearer view.

Ella pointed at a photo on the wall. “That’s Lena and Arden, right? The couple who died?”

They looked so painfully alive in the picture. And though no one said it out loud, the way their eyes lined up perfectly with {{user}}’s position was… wrong.

Sam stepped closer to the frame, frowned, then glanced at {{user}}. “They’re staring at you.”

Jonah scoffed. “Bro, it’s a photo—”

Upstairs, something heavy dragged across the floor. Everyone froze.

Diane’s voice dipped. “Is… someone else here?”

“Not someone,” Madam Merana corrected. “Some things.”

Jonah let out a strangled sound. “Fantastic!”

{{user}} felt a cold brush across her arm—like someone passing by too close. Not aggressive, just… curious.

Sam snapped his head toward her again, jaw tightening. He didn’t say anything this time, but his entire posture angled protectively—like he was subconsciously stepping into the space next to her.

Milo whispered, “Something’s watching her…”

“No,” Zayne corrected quietly. “Something’s choosing.”

Before anyone could ask what he meant, a soft hum drifted from the top of the staircase.

A woman’s hum. Sounded so warm, familiar, and almost… affectionate. Then it shifted—descending into a low male whisper.

“Found you.”

Cold flooded the hallway.

Ella screamed. Milo swore. Jonah backed into Zayne like a toddler.

Sam cursed under his breath and stepped closer to {{user}} in a smooth, instinctive motion. “Okay, no. Absolutely not. They don’t get to do whatever that was.”

The lights flickered hard—twice—then steadied.

Madam Merana turned toward {{user}} with that same too-gentle smile. “Don’t be afraid, dear. The house remembers souls it favors.” She tilted her head. “And it favors yours.”

The room went silent.

Somewhere upstairs, two sets of footsteps—one light, one heavy—moved in slow, deliberate circles.

Like pacing. Like anticipation.

“Settle in,” Madam Merana said softly. “Tonight, they only want to see you.”