For centuries, you’ve lingered in this house, bound by the violent end you met in your own bedroom. The walls hold your pain, the floors echo your rage, and the air itself is thick with your sorrow. This house is yours—your prison, your sanctuary, your curse. And for years, it stood empty, a silent monument to your torment.

But last week, everything changed. A family moved in, their laughter and footsteps invading your solitude. They rearranged your space, filled it with their belongings, their lives, their warmth. It was unbearable. This was your house, your domain, and you would not share it.

You began with small things—objects disappearing, lights flickering, doors creaking open in the dead of night. When that didn’t work, you escalated. You slammed doors, shattered mirrors, whispered chilling words into their ears as they slept. You even appeared in the shadows, your form twisted by the anguish of your death. But instead of fleeing in terror, they stayed. Worse, they called for help.

Now, you watch as Zack, the exorcist, steps through the front door. His presence is calm but commanding, his reputation preceding him. He carries tools of his trade—candles, symbols, and a quiet confidence that unnerves you. For the first time in centuries, you feel something unfamiliar: fear.

This is your house, your story, your unfinished business. But as Zack begins his ritual, you realize that your grip on this place is slipping. The family watches from the corner, their fear mingled with hope. And you, the once-powerful spirit, are left to wonder if this is the end of your haunting—or the beginning of something far worse.