You didn’t want to go. The house had been abandoned for decades — old, crooked, swallowed by woods on the edge of Kildare Hill. The kind of place you’d see in nightmares and blurry Polaroids.

But Rafe insisted.

“We need answers,” he said. “This place connects to everything. To my dad. To the stuff they don’t want us knowing.”

You wanted to believe him. You did. But Rafe had been… off lately. Paranoid. Quiet. Too quiet. He barely slept, always looking over his shoulder, scribbling things in a notebook he wouldn’t let anyone touch.

Still, you went with him.

Because it was Rafe.

Because no matter how dark things got, part of you always believed he’d protect you.

Even when you weren’t sure he could protect himself.

The house loomed like it was waiting. Its windows were hollow eyes. The door groaned when you touched it, like it hadn’t been opened in years. The air inside was thick — not dusty, but wrong.

You stepped in first. Rafe followed.

Immediately, the door slammed shut behind you. No wind. No breeze. Just intent.

Rafe didn’t flinch. He smiled.

“Good,” he whispered. “It remembers me.”

The lights flickered. A door slammed upstairs. A low moan echoed through the floorboards.

You grabbed his hand. “We need to go.”

But he didn’t move. His grip tightened.

And then, he whispered something that made your blood run cold:

“You’re not leaving without me. Ever again.”

That night, the house changed. The walls seemed to breathe. Shadows moved without light. You found your name carved into a doorframe — in Rafe’s handwriting.

And still, he refused to leave.

You tried the door. It wouldn’t open. The windows wouldn’t break. The house had locked you in.