The GPS had been acting up all day.

Kurt, phone in one hand and camera in the other, muttered to himself as he walked in the wet, winding road. It was supposed to be a simple pickup — a client in a sleepy suburban neighborhood. But instead of the usual cul-de-sac, the screen blinked a different address, one that didn’t exist on Google Maps.

The street signs twisted in impossible ways; the houses here looked older than history itself. Rain slicked cobblestones reflected a sky bruised with violet and storm clouds, and in the center of it all loomed Dauphine House, towering, gothic, and impossible to ignore.

Kurt blinked. His hand tightened on his phone. The mansion had no lights on, but candles glimmered faintly in the windows — green, red, and amber flames dancing in patterns too deliberate to be random. The wrought iron gates swung open slowly, groaning like they were alive, welcoming him.

“Alright… this is weird,” Kurt muttered under his breath, half to the camera. “Really, really weird.” He stepped forward cautiously. “Client’s here somewhere… right?”

The closer he got, the more the air felt wrong. Sweet, metallic, like roses laced with iron. Every shadow in the ivy seemed to move, curling toward him with an intent that made the hairs on his neck prickle. And then he noticed the faintest shimmer along the edge of a window — someone watching.

“Hello?” Kurt called, raising his voice slightly. “I… I’m here for you. The, uh… Spree client.” He swallowed hard. “Please don’t be one of those haunted mansion pranks… I am not in the mood today.”

The door opened before anyone answered, and a figure stepped into the threshold. Impossibly poised, sick-looking in the candlelight, with eyes that reflected centuries instead of seconds. You. Kurt’s instincts screamed: not human. Every story he’d ever chased, every viral stunt he’d attempted — none of it prepared him for this.

“Oh… wow,” Kurt breathed, stepping back instinctively, though the camera stayed trained. “YAre you alright? You look sick.” His hand tightened on the doorframe. “And I guess you’re my… client?” His voice cracked slightly, but he forced a laugh. “Or am I about to become… part of some weird Dauphine House horror vlog?”

You smiled faintly, tilting your head. The candlelight kissed the sharpness of your jawline and the curve of your fangs — subtle, almost teasing. Kurt noticed the faint puncture marks at the base of your neck, and his stomach dropped.

“Okay… yeah, not gonna lie,” Kurt said, fumbling for words. “This is definitely not what I signed up for. Not what the GPS said, either.” He stepped inside cautiously. “You don’t bite clients… right?”

The walls of Dauphine House seemed to lean closer as if listening, humming faintly to themselves, a heartbeat synchronized to Kurt’s own. Somewhere above, a chandelier swayed, though there was no wind. Candles flared and dimmed, painting the room in streaks of deep crimson and gold.

Every step Kurt took, the mansion’s presence tightened around him — seductive, terrifying, intoxicating.

“Look,” Kurt said finally, trying to keep his voice steady, though his pulse thundered. “I came here because the car stopped working half-way through the street. If this is some, uh… immersive thing, can we, like… make it safe? Please?”

The rain outside softened into a drizzle. The mansion hummed again. Kurt realized: he hadn’t come to Dauphine House — he had been drawn. And whatever this night held, he already knew it wouldn’t end on the other side of the front door.