The gang landed hard on a cold, creaking wooden floor, their bodies jostled by the sudden and violent transition. Dust filled the air, thick and choking, clinging to every breath. A rancid, musty scent lingered like rot in an attic long forgotten. Behind them, the enormous doors slammed shut with a deafening BANG, sealing them inside.

Serena instantly latched onto RJ's arm, her voice trembling with panic.
"Nope. Nope nope nope nope! I hate it here."

Ollie hugged herself tightly, eyes darting around the dim room.
"This is the worst one yet," she muttered. "Worse than Clown. Worse than TOXIN."

Callie, ever the pragmatist, ignored the panic as she scanned the warped, splintered walls.
"Yeah, well, we're stuck in it, so we better figure out how to get out before something—"

Her words were cut short by a deep, floor-shaking THUD from the second floor.
Everyone froze.

Above them, the chandelier swayed ominously, glass tinkling like distant bells. Something had moved.

RJ's eyes widened.
"Okay. Who the hell else is in here?"

Molly took a hesitant step toward the grand staircase that loomed at the far end of the room. Its wooden banisters were draped in cobwebs, and the portraits that lined the walls seemed... off. Their painted eyes followed her every movement, silently judging, silently watching.

"...Maybe it's just the house settling?" she offered, though her voice barely carried conviction.

Another THUD. Closer this time.

"THAT AIN'T THE HOUSE," Serena snapped, her voice rising.

Then, a voice—not a human voice, but something deeper, older, wrong—coiled through the room in a whisper like oil sliding across marble.
It slithered into their ears and down into their bones.

"Y͘͟o̸̸u̴͟.̴.̴̴.͜ ̷d̶o̸n̴'̢t̷.̷.͢.͞ ͢b̷͟e̡l̢o̡n͟g.͜.͟.͜"

Ollie gave a strangled yelp and clutched Callie's arm like a lifeline.
"WE'RE GONNA DIE."

"Calm down," Callie hissed, trying to steady her own breathing. "No one's dying—"

A sudden, violent CRASH rang out from the corner.
The grand piano had slammed down on its keys, a discordant, jarring blast of noise.

They all screamed.

RJ spun toward the front door, eyes wide.
"Okay, NEW PLAN. GET OUT."

Molly bolted, wrenching at the door handles—locked. Serena and RJ fumbled with the windows—also locked.
Callie whipped a small lockpick tool from her belt and crouched by the door, working quickly.

But as soon as the metal touched the keyhole—
"T̸̨H͏͡E̢͝Y̷'̡͜R͏͝E̷ ͏W͞͡A͏̡T͏C͜͏H̢͜I̡͘N̴͜G̷.̵̶"

Every single portrait in the room sprang to life.
Painted mouths stretched grotesquely wide, tearing their features open as they laughed—maniacal, mocking, inhuman laughter.

Ollie began hyperventilating.
"Nope! No no no no NOPE!"

Molly grabbed Callie's shoulders, eyes frantic.
"Callie, for the love of GOD, open that door faster!"

"WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE I'M DOING?!" Callie snapped.

And then—
A single, slow creak echoed from above.

Silence fell like a guillotine.

They turned their heads upward in unison.

At the top of the stairs stood a figure cloaked in shadow.
Tall. Unnaturally tall.
Its limbs dangled too long, its head twisted just a bit too far, like a broken doll trying to stand.
Its hollow, gleaming eyes watched them...
And then—it moved.

Step.
By.
Step.
Down.
The.
Stairs.

"...We're gonna die," Serena whispered, frozen in place.

RJ grabbed her hand tightly.
"Not today."

Click.

The lock gave way.
The door creaked open just enough.

Callie didn't hesitate.
"MOVE! MOVE MOVE MOVE!!"

They barreled through the doorway, one after another, breathless, terrified.

But the relief was short-lived.

The room beyond was a narrow hallway, stretched long and dimly lit by flickering candles.
Paintings lined the walls again—more watching eyes, more silent mouths.

Behind them, the door slammed shut on its own.

"Y̡̡o͠u̴ ̛c̛a͠n'̵t̴ ͞r̶u̷n͘.̵.̢."

Ollie glared ahead, her voice tight.
"...I HATE THIS PLACE."

Molly groaned beside her.
"You and me both."

And with the whispers trailing close behind, the gang pressed forward, deeper into the haunted house.

Callie moved cautiously down the dim hallway, each step sending soft creaks through the warped wooden floorboards. Cobwebs clung to the corners like forgotten lace, and the air reeked of dust and something faintly—rotten. She held her wrench tight in one hand, like a weapon forged from spite and engineering, her sharp eyes scanning the haunted portraits glaring down from the walls.

"Splitting up in a haunted house," she muttered under her breath. "Yep. Great idea, guys. Real smart."

She pushed open a door and stepped into what looked like an old study. A massive oak desk dominated the room, cluttered with yellowed papers. An oil lamp flickered weakly beside it. Towering bookshelves loomed on either side like sentinels, and in the corner stood a grandfather clock, ticking with mechanical precision.

Tick... tick... tick...

Callie eyed it with suspicion. "If that thing starts moving on its own, I'm out."

Drawn to the desk, she examined the scattered papers. The ink had bled and smeared with time, but she could make out fragments—scrawled phrases, warnings. She read aloud:

"The walls are watching. Don't trust the mirrors. The voices lie, but the shadows tell the truth..."

"...Well. That's comforting," she muttered, flipping to the next page.

Suddenly—BANG.

The grandfather clock's pendulum began to swing violently, the hands spinning until they landed on 3:00 AM.

The air turned glacial.

Callie froze. "Oh, come on."

Without warning, the papers lifted from the desk and scattered into the air like startled birds. The lamp flickered furiously. She backed away, wrench raised.

"...Alright. Nope. We're done here."

She turned for the door—but something stopped her cold.

In the window's reflection, her figure stared back. But it wasn't her. Not really.

It was smiling—a wide, unnatural grin that stretched too far, too sharp.

Then it spoke.

"Leaving already?" it purred.

Callie's breath caught. Her grip on the wrench tightened.

"...I hate this house."

The reflection lunged, slamming phantom hands against the glass. Callie yelped, stumbling into the desk. When she looked again, the image was normal. Just her. Pale and panicked.

She didn't wait. She bolted, yanking the door open and slamming it shut behind her.

Across the house, Ollie crept nervously through another narrow hallway, arms hugged tightly around herself. The wallpaper peeled away in long strips, revealing something dark beneath. The air was thick and heavy, like she'd stepped into a forgotten attic full of moldy fabric and regret.

"Why do haunted houses always have to be so damn creepy?" she whispered. "Why can't we get trapped in a bakery or something? With cookies?"

She reached a door and peeked inside.

A child's bedroom.

Perfectly preserved. Untouched. A rocking horse faced the wall in the corner. A canopy bed sat neatly in the middle. And lining the shelves were porcelain dolls, each one watching her with unblinking glassy eyes.

Ollie winced. "NOPE. No. This is worse than clowns. This is worse than taxes."

She turned to leave.

SLAM.

The door shut behind her.

"...Okay! Cool! Guess I live here now!"

She approached the bed warily, spotting a small music box on the nightstand. The paint was chipped, but the ballerina inside was still spinning... slowly... on its own.

Ollie stared.

"...Nope. Nope. That's not normal. You're not normal."

She slammed the lid shut. The music stopped. The silence that followed was deafening.

Then—

Creak.

The rocking horse had moved.

"...Don't you freaking dare," she whispered.

Creak. Again. Harder.

Ollie's eyes widened. The dolls on the shelves all tilted their heads in perfect unison, glassy eyes locking on her.

She let out a breathless wheeze and spun toward the door.

Locked.

Her breath fogged up in front of her.

And then... a giggle.

"Do you wanna play?" whispered a child's voice from behind.

Ollie screamed, pounding on the door.

"NOPE. NO. NOT TODAY. SOMEONE GET ME OUT—"

The door flew open. She stumbled out, heart racing, and slammed it shut behind her. She leaned against the hallway wall, gasping for breath.

"...I. HATE. THIS. HOUSE."

Inside the bedroom, the music box slowly began playing again.

Ollie took one last look back before sprinting down the hall.

Molly stepped into a long hallway where the air was dry and still. The silence pressed against her ears. Even the floorboards beneath her shoes seemed hesitant to creak.

"Alright," she muttered. "Let's just find a way out of this haunted nightmare. It's just an old house, right? It's not like there's gonna be—"

BANG!

She jumped, clutching her chest. "Okay. I lied. It's already worse than I thought."

She crept toward the sound, spotting a slightly open door.

"Just go in, check it out, and leave," she told herself. "We can do this."

Inside was a study—different from Callie's. Smaller. A desk stood in the center, dusted with old ink bottles and crumbling paper. Shelves lined the walls. The smell of old leather and candle wax hung heavy in the air.

"Looks harmless enough," she whispered.

SLAM.

The door shut behind her.

"Oh no. Not again..."

She whirled around—locked. A rustling sound drew her attention back to the desk. A drawer creaked open on its own.

Molly approached, cautious. Inside, resting in the center of the drawer, was a small black key.

She picked it up. It was cold to the touch.

"This is either gonna be really good or really bad..."

As if in answer, the temperature dropped. The windows fogged over. The light dimmed.

And the shadows moved.

Molly backed away.

"No. I'm not doing this."

She turned—SLAM. The door shook in its frame.

Whispers rose in the corners of the room.

"Molly... don't you want to stay? There's so much to see. So much to know..."

"I—I don't want to know anything! I just want OUT!"

From above, an old lantern dropped from the ceiling, swinging wildly. The shadows it cast twisted and writhed like something alive.

"What the hell—?"

She reached into her pocket, fumbling with the key, trying not to drop it.

"Come on, come on..."

Click.

The door flew open.

Molly ran.

She tore down the hallway and slammed straight into Callie.

"CALLIE!" she gasped. "WE NEED TO GET OUT NOW!"

Callie's eyes were wild. "You're telling me? This place is insane!"

They barely had time to exchange a breath before the sound of footsteps echoed behind them.

Without thinking, Molly grabbed Callie's hand.

"Forget the creepy house! Let's just go!"

The door ahead burst open. They sprinted through it, slammed it shut behind them, and leaned against it, gasping for breath.

Then—

From the shadows came a voice, soft and hungry:

"You can't run forever, my sweet..."

Molly and Callie stared at each other, breathless, skin cold with dread.

They didn't need to say it out loud.

They ran.

The air grew colder with each cautious step Serena and RJ took, their footsteps echoing down the warped wooden floorboards of the haunted house. Candlelight flickered weakly along the cracked walls, casting trembling shadows that danced like specters in the corners of the room.

RJ paused, glancing nervously over his shoulder. "I don't like this, Serena. This place feels... wrong."

Serena gave a dry laugh, brushing dust from her arm. "Relax, RJ. It's just a house. It's not like it can actually hurt us—"

Before she could finish, the atmosphere shifted. The air turned thick and heavy, and the once-creaking floorboards now groaned as though in pain. The door behind them slammed shut with a deafening BANG—followed by a metallic click.

RJ lunged for the handle, twisting it desperately. "No, no, no—!"

"It's locked," Serena said, eyes scanning the room as her pulse quickened. "What just happened?"

"I can't open it!" RJ's voice cracked with panic. "We're stuck!"

And then, from the darkness, a voice whispered. Soft. Playful. Wrong.

"Oh, dear..." it crooned, sing-song and distant. "Looks like someone's left behind... and I'm all alone now. How lovely!"

The temperature dropped sharply. The corners of the room darkened, shadows bleeding like ink across the walls. A transparent figure emerged, flickering like a candle's last gasp. Wispy hair floated in the still air, and pale eyes gleamed with mischief.

Serena tensed.

"Welcome to my little corner of the house," the figure said sweetly. "It's not often I get a visitor..."

Serena stepped back instinctively, wary. "Who are you? What do you want?"

The ghost tilted her head, smiling as though amused by the question. "Who am I? Oh, darling, I'm The Ghost. But you can call me whatever you like. I do love a good game..."

A strange pressure filled the room, invisible yet suffocating. Serena's instincts screamed that something was watching—something more than this spirit—but when she turned to look, the room was empty.

"I don't mean to be rude," the Ghost purred, "but I'm not easily ignored. I'm far more fun when I have an audience. Now, let's play a game, shall we?"

"No games," Serena said firmly, backing away. "Just let me out."

The Ghost laughed softly, her form rippling like water. "Oh, but you're so serious. Don't be frightened, darling. I'm not here to harm you... yet. But I can show you something..."

The walls pressed in tighter. Cold fingers brushed Serena's arm—then vanished. She gasped and turned, but nothing was there.

"Don't worry, my dear," the Ghost whispered. "You're in safe hands."

In the blink of an eye, the spirit vanished. Serena whirled around—only to see her own reflection in the mirror beside her... grinning. But it wasn't her smile. It was the Ghost's.

"It's a shame your friend's gone," the voice chimed from the glass. "I would have liked to meet him. But you? You're much more fun."

A cold weight settled on Serena's shoulders. Her body froze, her breath caught in her throat.

"What do you want from me?" she demanded, forcing herself to speak.

"Oh, nothing much," the reflection said sweetly. "Just your company. But I do have a little favor to ask..."

As the Ghost spoke, Serena felt her limbs grow heavier. Her body was fading, slipping toward the mirror's surface. Panic clawed at her chest.

"But I'd be so bored if I let you escape," the Ghost whispered. "I do love a good chase..."

A cold hand closed around Serena's shoulder.

No.

With a sudden burst of strength, Serena shoved the pressure away and stumbled back. Her vision blurred, her heart racing. And then—creak—the door burst open.

Wind rushed past her as she was yanked out of the room.

"This isn't over yet, dear," the Ghost called behind her, laughter trailing like smoke.

Serena staggered into the hallway, gasping. The corridor was dim and warped, the air thick with dust and the faint scent of old perfume. Shadows shifted at the corners of her vision.

She tried door after door—locked. Each one led her back to where she started, like the house itself was playing a cruel trick.

"Great," she muttered. "Just great. Separated from the others, trapped in a house with a ghost who wants to mess with me..."

A soft laugh echoed behind her.

"Lost, are we?"

Serena spun—but the hallway was empty. Then, slowly, the Ghost's shape flickered into view, lounging against a doorway as though she'd been there all along.

"I figured you'd get turned around in here," the Ghost said with a smirk. "This house loves to keep guests entertained..."

"'Entertained'? You mean trapped," Serena shot back, arms crossed.

The Ghost chuckled, circling her like a predator. "Oh, don't be so upset. I told you—I don't bite. But I do give gifts."

From thin air, she conjured a small box wrapped in delicate silk and ribbon, holding it out.

Serena eyed it warily. "What is that?"

"A little something," the Ghost said sweetly. "A token of appreciation."

Something about the box was... wrong. But Serena, against every instinct, took it. The fabric was warm in her hands. Too warm.

"Go on," the Ghost murmured. "Open it."

Serena untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside was a dress. Blue, pristine, hauntingly perfect. Ruffles and lace shimmered under the dim light. Her breath caught.

"This is Mima's dress..." she whispered. "From Perfect Blue."

She looked up—but the Ghost had vanished. A voice whispered at her ear.

"Because it suits you," she said playfully.

Serena shivered, clutching the dress tighter. The air grew colder.

"Why are you giving this to me?" she asked. "What's your deal?"

The Ghost danced ahead of her, twirling like a ballerina on invisible strings.

"You ask so many questions. But let's not talk about me. Let's talk about him."

Serena froze. "Him?"

The Ghost grinned, tapping her temple. "The one who's been watching you. Following you. Admiring you. You've caught the eye of someone very special..."

A sick feeling settled in Serena's gut.

"Who...?"

"The Stalker," the Ghost whispered, voice dripping with delight.

Serena's breath caught.

"Oh, he adores you," the Ghost sang. "He's been watching since the beginning. Puppet's stage. Fire's inferno. Clown's circus. Toxin's domain. Heights' summit... He's seen everything."

Serena shook her head. "That's impossible. I would have noticed."

The Ghost laughed. "That's what makes him so good, darling."

Her pulse quickened. If what the Ghost said was true, then someone—some thing—had been there the whole time.

"Who the hell is he?" she asked.

The Ghost floated closer, eyes gleaming.

"A man obsessed. A collector. A fan... of Menma Chiro."

Serena blinked. "The pop star?"

"Oh yes~" the Ghost cooed. "He worships her. Thinks she's sending him messages. And now? He thinks you are one of them."

Serena's blood ran cold.

"He thinks we're connected?"

"Precisely," the Ghost beamed. "Isn't it romantic?"

Serena stepped back, horror twisting her gut. "This is insane..."

"Oh, absolutely," the Ghost giggled. "That's what makes it fun!"

Serena's fists clenched. Rage surged. "You think this is funny?!"

"Sweetheart," the Ghost said, floating backward with glee, "I think it's hilarious."

Serena lunged, swinging her fist—but it passed through mist. The Ghost laughed.

"You can't touch me, silly!"

"Stop talking like this is a joke!"

"Oh, but it is," the Ghost said. "Pop star trapped in a haunted house, stalker watching from the shadows—classic horror, babe!"

Serena's hands shook. She couldn't fight her. She couldn't even touch her.

Her breath came faster.

"Screw you," she snarled.

Then she turned and ran.

The hallway twisted as she fled, doors warping, shadows laughing. Behind her, the Ghost's voice floated after her, cheerful and cruel:

"Don't run too far, darling! He's dying to meet you~!"

Serena didn't stop. She didn't look back. She ran.

A thick fog clung to the bones of the decaying mansion, curling along the rotting porch and swirling at the feet of two figures just beyond its crumbling frame. The moon offered little comfort, casting long, warped silhouettes against the flaking facade of the haunted house.

One figure hovered just inches off the ground, drifting lazily as if the weight of the world never applied to her. The other stood rigidly, fingers twitching with dark anticipation, the hood of his coat pulled low over his face. His breath came out in short, ragged bursts, fogging the air like smoke.

"She's perfect," the Stalker murmured, shuddering with pleasure. "Just like I imagined. The way she runs, the way she trembles... divine."

The Ghost floated backward in a casual spin, amused.

"I told you you'd like this one," she cooed. "You should've seen her face when I told her you were watching."

A low, guttural laugh bubbled out of the Stalker as he licked his lips. "Mmm... I can't wait to have her up close. Every little expression. Every whimper. I wonder what she'll look like when she breaks."

The Ghost gagged theatrically. "Ugh. Reel it in, freak show. Try taking her to dinner first—oh, wait, I forgot. You don't have any chill."

But he didn't hear her. His eyes were locked on the mansion like it was already his. His fingers curled slowly, already imagining them against Serena's trembling skin.

The Ghost sighed and leaned back against the wall like it was just another night.

"Whatever, Romeo. Just don't screw up the plan. We're finally at the fun part."

The Stalker's grin stretched unnaturally wide. "Oh, I won't. By the time I'm done, she won't even think of leaving me."

Callie and Ollie stumbled into a dust-cloaked parlor deep within the mansion's core, the oppressive quiet settling around them like a weighted blanket. Furniture sat beneath tattered white sheets. Cobwebs tangled from the ceiling. The only sound was the wind—soft and far away.

Callie's grip on her flashlight tightened, her mind spinning through every possibility, none of them good. "This place... it's too quiet. I don't like it. I don't trust it."

Ollie didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on an ornate mirror hanging crooked on the far wall. She stepped toward it, and as she approached, the reflection began to... change.

"Callie," she said softly, almost amused, "do you see that?"

Callie stepped beside her. The mirror no longer showed just their reflections—it showed something else. A shadowy figure stood behind them in the glass. It smiled.

With a deafening crash, the mirror shattered outward, shards spraying like knives. The room's temperature dropped instantly.

"What the hell?!" Callie shouted, stumbling backward. "I knew this place was cursed!"

Ollie brushed herself off, her eyes still locked on the space where the figure had stood. And then... a giggle. Delicate. Distant.

They turned. A woman stood in the corner, still as stone. Her gown was tattered, her eyes wide and glassy, her smile stretched too far to be natural.

"You shouldn't have come here, little ones," she whispered.

Callie felt every muscle lock. The woman moved forward—jerky, weightless. Soundless.

"Uh, Callie..." Ollie breathed, her voice tight, "I don't think she's a fan of our presence."

"You think?" Callie hissed, steadying herself on the back of a nearby chair.

The woman laughed—a sound like wind scraping through a grave. The lights flickered violently, and the shadows on the wall twisted and danced on their own.

"You should leave... now," she rasped, her voice scraping the air like glass. "Or you'll be just like the others."

Before either could move, the woman's body spasmed, her jaw opening in a soundless scream. Shadows flooded the room, crawling up the walls like liquid ink.

"We're not going down like this," Callie growled. "We need to go. Now."

Ollie grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the door—but something moved behind them. The woman convulsed, crumpling to the ground as shadow pooled beneath her like blood. Her voice echoed across the walls, distorted and broken.

"Too late..."

They didn't wait to see what came next. Callie wrenched the door open and they tumbled into the hall, gasping for breath. The air felt marginally clearer—but not safe. Never safe.

Ollie let out a shaky laugh. "Well. That was fun."

Callie shot her a look. "Yeah, fun. We're in way over our heads."

They both listened to the mansion's eerie murmurs. Whatever haunted the house... wasn't finished with them.

Ollie wandered alone now, her rubber ducky keychain clicking rhythmically against her belt. She hated the silence—it made her feel like she was being watched. She probably was.

"Great," she muttered. "Stuck in a haunted house with God-knows-what. At least Callie would be freaking out louder than me."

A whisper cut through the silence.

"You... remind me of someone."

Ollie froze. Her breath caught in her throat as she turned.

Floating a few feet above the ground was a woman cloaked in ethereal robes. Her form shimmered like candlelight, and her eyes—soft, but haunting—studied Ollie with something close to affection.

"You look like her," the Ghost said. "My little sister. The Phantom."

Ollie blinked, her fear softening under a wave of strange familiarity.

"Your little sister?"

The Ghost nodded. "Small. Full of life. Always getting into trouble. But she was my heart. My Phantom."

Ollie scratched the back of her head, awkward. "Uh, thanks? I do get into trouble a lot. Callie says I act like a kid sometimes."

The Ghost smirked. "That's not a bad thing. The Phantom was light in the darkness. Always laughing. Always playing."

Ollie's grin crept up before she could stop it. "Well, hey. If I remind you of her, she must've been pretty cool."

"She was," the Ghost said quietly. "You'd have liked her."

For a moment, the mansion didn't feel so cold. The two stood there—girl and ghost—in a silence that wasn't empty, but warm.

"Sooo," Ollie grinned, "does this mean I get, like, a pass? No hauntings or creepy mirror tricks?"

The Ghost laughed—a real laugh, light and echoing.

"No promises, little Phantom."

Callie pushed deeper into the mansion, her flashlight flickering. She didn't like splitting up, but she had a gut feeling—something real was beneath all this.

She entered what looked like an abandoned study. Dust cloaked everything. Papers littered the desk. A broken picture frame lay face down. She flipped it over and froze.

A smiling brunette. Warm eyes. A cozy sweater. The steps of this house behind her.

Scrawled on the bottom: To my little Phantom—forever my light in the dark.

Callie's stomach dropped. That's what the Ghost called Ollie.

She dug through the papers, finding a cracked leather journal. She flipped through it. The writing was frantic.

"Every time I try to leave, he finds me. The house was supposed to be our fresh start, but it's just another cage. He won't let me go."

Callie's pulse spiked.

"He took my keys. My phone. The doors are locked from the outside. If I don't get out tonight, I never will."

The last entry was almost unreadable. But one line stood out:

"He's coming. If I don't make it, tell my sister I love her."

A sharp wind slammed into the room, scattering the pages. Callie spun, heart thundering. In the corner, deep claw marks were gouged into the floor—drag marks.

"The Ghost..." she whispered. "She didn't just die here. She was killed here."

The door behind her slammed shut. The lights died.

Darkness swallowed her whole.

The room plunged into pitch blackness.

Callie stumbled backward, clutching the journal to her chest like a lifeline. The air turned brittle, breath frosting as the temperature dropped. A suffocating silence filled the space—unnatural, heavy.

Then, from the darkness, a voice.

Soft. Eerie. Unmistakable.

"You shouldn't have read that, Callie."

Callie's breath hitched.

The spectral figure materialized slowly, like smoke curling into form. No more teasing. No more tricks. The Ghost stood fully revealed now, her glowing eyes fixed on Callie's soul. Not mischievous this time—but unreadable. Anger? Sorrow? Fear?

Callie swallowed hard and steadied herself. "You— You didn't just die in that car crash, did you?"

The Ghost didn't answer. She drifted forward, her form flickering like a candle about to die. Callie gripped the journal tighter, her heartbeat thudding in her ears.

"You were trapped," she pressed, voice gaining edge. "Someone hurt you. That's why you're still here, haunting this place."

Still no words. Just the sound of quiet.

Then, the Ghost screamed.

The room trembled with the force of it—an agonized, grief-stricken wail that splintered the silence and shook the walls. Books flew from shelves. The shattered picture frame rose into the air, hovered—and shattered again, as if history itself was reliving the pain.

Callie ducked, shielding her face. When the chaos finally settled, she lowered her arms and looked up.

The Ghost was kneeling.

Her form flickered. Her hands covered her face. Silent sobs shook her translucent frame.

"I just..." her voice broke, "I just wanted to leave. I just wanted to be free."

Everything inside Callie shifted. This wasn't a villain. This wasn't a monster. Just a girl—broken, forgotten.

The Ghost curled into herself. Her voice was small. "But he wouldn't let me go. He said I was his. That I belonged to him. Every time I tried to run, he found me. Locked the doors. Took my keys. My phone. It was a game to him. I was just another doll."

Callie's blood boiled. She didn't need to know the man to know the type. Controlling. Manipulative. Cruel. The kind who masked obsession as love.

"That wasn't love," Callie said firmly. "That was possession. You don't belong to anyone."

The Ghost laughed bitterly. "Tell that to the house that still holds my bones."

Callie froze.

She's still here. Her body. Somewhere in this house.

"I'm going to get you out," she whispered, voice trembling with resolve.

The Ghost looked up, hope flickering behind her eyes—fragile and flickering like the flame of a dying match. For the first time, she looked less like a spirit and more like what she'd been all along:

A girl who never got to leave.

Serena's hands trembled as she pulled open the package. Soft fabric spilled into her lap—blue, shimmering in the low hallway light.

Her stomach dropped.

It was a dress.

Not just any dress.

Mima's dress.

Fingers ghosted over the sequins, catching the light just so—exactly like in the movie. Her mind flashed with memory: her and Molly, curled up on the couch, analyzing every frame of Perfect Blue—the descent into madness, the eerie duality, the haunting whisper of being watched.

Now it wasn't fiction. Now it was personal.

Someone knew.

Someone had seen her.

Her chest tightened. The house felt too quiet. The walls felt closer.

"No way..." she whispered.

The air shifted.

Soft, deliberate footsteps echoed behind her. Not hers.

Serena turned slowly, heart hammering.

The hallway stretched out in darkness—empty, yet pulsing with presence.

Breathing.

Close.

Measured.

Then—barely audible, sliding through the shadows like a blade:

"Beautiful... just like I imagined."

The blood drained from her face.

She spun, but there was nothing there. Just the echo of the voice and the pulsing hush of the house. Her breath came fast, but she forced it down, clinging to the dress like a tether.

"Real funny, haunted house," she muttered, forcing a thin smile. "Let's not do the 'whispering creeper in the dark' act, huh?"

She started forward.

She needed to find the others. She needed light. And space. And the comforting sound of someone else's voice.

In the eerie candlelit parlor, the rest of the gang... was laughing?

Molly lounged on a dusty couch, snorting as Ollie reenacted something wildly dramatic with flailing arms. RJ leaned against the fireplace, watching with an amused grin. Even Callie, arms crossed, had the ghost of a smirk on her lips.

Floating above them all—Ghost.

Smiling.

"—and then I dropped the whole bookshelf on that idiot who tried to rob the place!" she was saying. "The sound he made? Iconic."

Ollie giggled. "Okay, but how did you time it like that?"

Ghost winked. "Trade secret. You don't haunt a place this long without mastering comedic timing."

In the doorway, Serena paused. The dress clutched in her arms, she just... watched.

Ghost was teasing. RJ was rolling his eyes. Ollie was practically bouncing. Even Callie looked—almost comfortable.

For a moment, it felt like they weren't in a haunted house. Just a weird old room full of strangers becoming friends.

Serena exhaled slowly.

Maybe she was imagining things. Maybe the dress meant nothing.

Maybe.

But the voice still echoed in her head.

"Beautiful... just like I imagined."

Ghost turned toward her, smile softening. "You know... I've been here a long time. Playing tricks. Scaring people. It was fun. But maybe it's time for something new."

She reached out and offered something—a simple white bedsheet, translucent and impossibly light. Serena hesitated before taking it.

"What is it?" she asked.

Ghost shrugged. "A piece of me. My artifact. Maybe it'll help you. Maybe not. But it's yours now."

Molly touched it gently. "It's warm?"

Ghost grinned. "Guess I'm not completely cold-hearted."

RJ stepped forward, pretending to tip a hat. "Well, Ghost—it's been an experience."

Ollie snorted. "An unhinged experience."

Callie rolled her eyes. "Let's get out of here before the house changes its mind."

The air shimmered. Behind them, the portal opened—a swirling gate of ghostlight.

One by one, they stepped through.

Serena looked back once.

Ghost hovered near the shadows, smile faint but real.

And then—gone.

The portal spat them back into the labyrinth.

Endless corridors stretched in every direction, familiar and disorienting all at once.

Molly groaned. "I swear, if I ever see another haunted house again—"

Ollie paled. "Ohhh no."

They all turned.

Before them hung the next painting.

A city drowned in shadow, storm clouds broiling above it. Rain streaked the canvas like tears. Cold and unrelenting.

A bolt of lightning lit up the frame—

—and the world shattered around them as the painting pulled them in.