I didn't apply for anything serious. It was a Craigslist listing, probably fake. Just said:
"Caretaker needed. Remote property. Full housing provided. High compensation. Must be open-minded. Confidential."
It sounded shady, but my life was in shambles. I'd been couch surfing for two months, eating gas station sandwiches, and avoiding texts from my mom asking if I was okay. I wasn't. But I couldn't say that.
So I sent a half-assed email with a résumé that said I was "reliable, detail-oriented, and enthusiastic about remote work." It was bullshit. I figured I'd never hear back.
A day later, I got the response:
"You've been chosen. A vehicle will arrive tomorrow at noon. Pack lightly. No electronics necessary."
That should've been the first sign. But I had nothing to lose.
The car that showed up wasn't a normal car—it was a black limo. Tinted windows. Quiet tires. The driver didn't speak. He just held the door open.
I slid in with my duffel bag. No seatbelt. No music. Just silence and dark leather.
The windows blurred after the first twenty minutes. Not fogged—blurred, like someone had smeared oil across the glass. I couldn't see out anymore. Couldn't tell if we were on a highway, a back road, or in another state entirely.
Time slipped. I didn't know how long we were driving, but at some point, I dozed off.
When I woke up, my phone screen was on—even though I hadn't touched it.
Black screen. White text:
[Welcome, Subject #7]
[Compatibility Confirmed]
[Fertility: HIGH]
[Selected for Breeder Role]
[Initializing Personality Sync…]
"What the hell?" I whispered, sitting up.
The screen flickered.
[SYSTEM INSTALLED]
[Relationship Tracking Online]
[Mood Monitor Online]
Note: Survival dependent on success of emotional bonding. Good luck.
Then the screen died. Permanently. Wouldn't turn back on. Just dead.
I stared at it in my lap, pulse thudding in my ears. Was this a prank? Some kind of weird fetish cult? A bad joke?
The limo stopped before I could spiral.
The estate was massive. Black wrought-iron gates swung open with a groan as we passed. The mansion loomed up out of the mist like it had been waiting centuries for someone to come home.
It wasn't just big—it was old. The kind of place built before indoor plumbing was a thing. Stone towers. Arched windows. Moss growing between the bricks. It looked like a haunted cathedral had married a gothic mansion and buried itself in fog.
The limo door opened on its own.
The driver still didn't say anything. Just motioned me forward.
When I stepped out, the air hit me. It was cold—but not normal cold. It was wet and heavy, like walking into a basement that had never seen sunlight.
I walked up the stone path toward the doors.
The mansion's front doors were massive, wooden, carved with strange symbols that felt ancient. The kind of symbols that looked like they were meant to keep something in, not out.
The moment I raised my hand to knock, they creaked open.
I stepped into a cathedral-sized foyer.
Dark wood floors. A chandelier made of black iron. Velvet curtains. Portraits of people I didn't recognize—all with faces too long, too thin, eyes too hollow.
A fireplace crackled at the end of the hall, but the warmth didn't reach me. The air felt heavy. Like the walls were watching.
Then I heard footsteps.
Not boots. Not heels. Just… slow, soft shoes on wood. A man stepped into view from a side corridor. Pale. Tall. Perfectly dressed like an old-fashioned butler, complete with white gloves and a pocket watch.
"Mr. Graves," he said in a voice that sounded like dry parchment. "We've been expecting you."
"Yeah," I said, voice catching. "I got your… uh. Message. The job thing."
"There is no job," he said.
I blinked.
"You have been chosen. That is all."
Before I could ask anything, he turned and walked deeper into the house. "Follow me."
I did. Because what else was I going to do? Run?
He led me down a long hallway lined with old paintings. I swear one of them turned its head when I wasn't looking.
At the end of the corridor was a wide wooden door with a brass handle. The butler opened it with a soft click.
As the butler opened the heavy door to the bedroom, he stepped aside, letting me look in. The room was huge. Fireplace glowing. Thick velvet curtains. Antique furniture that looked like it hadn't been touched in years but was spotless.
He handed me a folded envelope, sealed in deep red wax with an emblem I didn't recognize—curved lines and a central eye. Old. Elegant. Oddly warm.
"Rest well, Mr. Graves," the butler said, bowing slightly. "The madam will speak with you tomorrow."
"Madam?" I asked, but he was already turning to leave.
The door shut with a soft but final click.
I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the letter.
The parchment was heavy. The writing was neat, sharp, and strangely beautiful. Feminine, but firm. It read:
___
"Mr. Graves,
Welcome to Ravenstead.
You have been extended this invitation because you were deemed… suitable. Suitable in ways that matter beyond appearances or education. Suitable in the ways that cannot be taught or faked.
Your stay will be comfortable, but your role is not passive. You are not here merely to observe. You are here to connect. To listen. To learn. And, in time, to prove your worth—not through tasks, but through understanding.
This house has its own rhythm. Its own rules. You will feel them in time. Let your instincts guide you. Not everything here is as it seems.
Do not worry. You are safe, for now. The walls watch, but they do not judge. The doors will open… when they are ready.
Until then, rest. And be patient. We have been waiting a long time."
—M.
Proprietress of Ravenstead
___
I reread it three times. It told me almost nothing. And yet… it said everything I needed to know.
This wasn't a caretaking gig. It was something else. Something old. Something intimate and unsettling.
And whoever "M." was, she wasn't just the owner of a mansion.
She was in control of something much bigger.
The fire cracked softly behind me. The System blinked back into view in the corner of my eye.