Maya hadn't slept.
She couldn't.
The house didn't feel like home anymore. It felt like it was watching her.
Every wall creaked. Every mirror rippled. The air felt thicker, as if it carried voices that didn't want to be heard.
That morning, she found scratches on her arms.
Three lines. Deep. Parallel.
But she hadn't done it.
And the torn page? It was changing again.
Now it read:
> Under the floorboards… lies the eye.
The eye?
Maya, trembling, stepped into her father's old study. It smelled of damp paper and something else—something rotting.
She kneeled and began tapping the wooden floor, one plank at a time.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Thud.
Her heart froze.
One of the planks sounded hollow.
She grabbed a screwdriver and pried it open.
There was a box. Wrapped in cloth. Stained. Wet.
She opened it.
Inside: an eyeball. Real. Dry. Still looking.
Maya screamed and fell back—but the box didn't stop there. Underneath the eye was something else.
A photo.
Of her father.
With the priest.
And five other men.
Standing at the bridge, decades ago.
They were smiling.
They were younger.
And in the background… a body was hanging from the scaffolding.
Maya dropped the box and backed away.
> Creeeeeeaaak…
The study door closed on its own.
Then, came a voice.
> "Your father was part of it."
Maya turned.
No one.
> "He gave the first one. The blood sacrifice."
The voice was inside the walls.
"Maya…" the whisper grew deeper, almost a growl.
A crack ran down the center of the wall in front of her. From the crack… a human tongue slowly slithered out, twitching.
She screamed and ran—but the house changed. The hallway stretched. Doors disappeared. Lights went black.
And then… silence.
Too quiet.
A baby's cry echoed from the darkness.
Soft. Then louder.
Louder.
And then a woman's voice: "Where is my child? WHERE IS MY CHILD?!"
Suddenly, the hallway twisted into an old hospital ward.
Beds rusted. Blood-stained sheets. And a woman stood at the end.
Hair covering her face.
Holding… something wrapped in cloth.
She looked up.
Her face was split—stitched shut, the mouth sewn like a doll's.
She pointed to Maya.
Then, the cloth fell from her arms.
What dropped wasn't a baby.
It was a burnt skull.
The lights exploded.
Maya was back in her room.
Panting.
Sweating.
The box was gone.
But the wall… now had a crack. And the crack was bleeding.
> "Seven nights left…" whispered the wall.