Panic set in at seventy-five minutes. The house began to breathe—a low, wet rasp that vibrated through the floorboards. The temperature plummeted, their breath turning to mist. One by one, their flashlights flickered and died, leaving them in a darkness so absolute it felt physical.

The manor was a jagged silhouette against the bruised purple sky. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the ghost of a thousand cold winters. They moved through the foyer, their flashlights cutting weak paths through the gloom.

Sarah laughed, a nervous sound that died quickly in the heavy air. “And if we don’t?”

The wind howled through the skeletal trees of Oakhaven, carrying the scent of damp leaves and cheap latex. It was October 31, 2014, and for three high school seniors, the night was supposed to be a final, legendary hurrah before adulthood beckoned.

Then came the scratching—a rhythmic, frantic sound from behind the walls. It didn't sound like rats; it sounded like fingernails on wood.