Emily pulled her car up to the crumbling Victorian house on the edge of the forgotten town, the engine ticking as it cooled in the late afternoon sun. The realtor had called it a steal, a family heirloom passed down through generations, perfect for a fresh start after her messy divorce. She stepped out, breathing in the crisp country air, though it carried a faint, musty tang that she attributed to the overgrown yard. Keys jingled in her hand as she unlocked the front door, the wood swollen and sticking slightly. Inside, the air was thicker, stagnant, like the house had been holding its breath for decades.
The foyer was grand but decayed, wallpaper peeling in curling strips to reveal plaster stained yellow. Emily flicked on the light switch, surprised when a dusty chandelier flickered to life, casting long shadows that danced like fingers across the floorboards. She hauled in her boxes one by one, humming to shake off the unease prickling her skin. Upstairs, she chose the master bedroom with its bay window overlooking the woods. As she unpacked clothes into the antique dresser, she noticed faint scratches on the wood inside the drawers, like nails dragged in desperation. Old house stuff, she thought, closing it firmly.
That night, sleep came fitfully. The wind howled outside, or so she told herself, but between gusts came softer sounds—whispers slithering through the walls, indistinct murmurs that formed no words. Emily bolted upright, heart pounding, straining to listen. Nothing. Just imagination, fueled by isolation and the long drive. She lay back down, pulling the covers tight, but the whispers persisted, faint as distant radio static, burrowing into her dreams.
Morning brought clarity. Sunlight streamed through grimy panes, banishing the night’s fancies. Emily brewed coffee in the cavernous kitchen, the counters chipped porcelain gleaming dully. As she sipped, a itch bloomed on her forearm—small, red bumps like mosquito bites. She scratched absently, watching dust motes swirl. By afternoon, exploring the house, she found the basement door under the stairs, padlocked. Odd, but not alarming. She spent the day cleaning, wiping down surfaces that seemed to resist her efforts, growing dirtier somehow.
The itch worsened that evening. The bumps had spread, weeping clear fluid when scratched. Emily dabbed antiseptic, blaming mold spores or allergens. Dinner tasted off—her canned soup metallic, gritty. Lying in bed, the whispers returned, clearer now. ‘…stay… join…’ They coiled around her thoughts, making her head throb. She plugged her ears, but the voices vibrated in her chest.
Day two dawned gray. Emily’s reflection in the bathroom mirror showed dark circles, skin pallid. The rash encircled her arm like a bracelet, the skin beneath taut and shiny. She called her friend Lisa, signal weak. ‘The house is creepy, but it’ll be fine,’ she said, voice echoing strangely. Lisa laughed. ‘Sounds like a horror movie. Don’t let it get to you.’ Hanging up, Emily noticed the phone screen smeared with a dark residue from her fingers.
Venturing outside, she tried the car—dead battery, though it had been fine yesterday. Walking to town was out; miles away. Back inside, the walls seemed closer, paper bubbling as if damp. Scratches appeared fresh on the dresser, deeper. In the kitchen, she found a mouse trap sprung, but no mouse—just a smear of blood matching her rash’s hue. Dread settled, slow and heavy, like fog rolling in.
Night fell with purpose. Whispers chanted her name: ‘Emily… Emily…’ She barricaded the bedroom door with a chair, but the voices seeped through, recounting fragments of her past—the divorce argument, her father’s belt, childhood secrets she’d buried. Tears stung as the rash crept up her shoulder, burning. Peeling back her sleeve, she gasped: beneath the skin, something writhed, threadlike veins pulsing black.
Dawn barely penetrated the curtains. Emily’s body ached, joints stiff as if rusted. Nails on her rash-hand yellowed, brittle. She confronted the basement door, key from a hook trembling in her grip. The padlock crumbled to rust at her touch. Descending stone steps, lantern beam slicing darkness, the air grew fetid, walls slick with moisture. At the bottom, a chamber: walls embedded with shapes—humanoid, mummified forms half-merged into stone, faces frozen in screams, skin fused to mortar.
Horror gripped her. Six figures, decayed finery hinting at eras past. One wore a locket like her grandmother’s. Whispers exploded: ‘Join us… become…’ Emily fled upstairs, slamming the door, but corruption accelerated. Her legs buckled midway, skin splitting on knees, oozing viscous black. Crawling to the front door, she wrenched it open, tumbling onto the porch.
Fresh air hit like salvation. She staggered to her car, hot-wiring it clumsily—it roared. Tires spun gravel as she fled down the drive. In the rearview, the house loomed unchanged. Gasping, she glanced at her arm: rash receding? No—in the dashboard reflection, her face twisted, eyes milky, mouth stretched in a rictus grin not her own.
Pulling over miles away, Emily stumbled to a puddle from last night’s rain. Her reflection stared back: pristine skin, normal eyes, house behind her on the horizon tiny. But the real horror: the whispers inside her skull now, her hand—the corrupted one—clenching involuntarily, nails elongating into claws. She hadn’t escaped; the house had sent her out as its vessel.
Flashback crashed: not inheritance—she’d bought it cheap, but earlier ‘family heirloom’ delusion. Truth: as child, playing in woods, she found the house boarded, entered despite warnings. Touched the walls, felt hunger. It marked her then, corruption dormant for decades, triggered by return. The previous occupants? Wanderers she lured as teen, feeding the house unknowingly, blackouts she blamed on illness.
Now, driving to town, skin crawling under clothes, she knew: the place hadn’t corrupted those inside—it corrupted from afar, through her. She was its heart, mobile now, seeking new homes to infest. First stop: Lisa’s address burned in memory. Whispers urged: ‘Bring her… join…’
Emily smiled, teeth sharpening. The ordinary woman was gone; the devourer drove on.