The house had stood on Hollow Hill for centuries, its dark silhouette a permanent fixture against the sky. Locals avoided it, whispering tales of those who had entered and never returned. Even from a distance, it loomed with an unnatural presence, the air around it heavy with the weight of untold secrets. Ivy crept up its crumbling walls, and the wind seemed to carry faint, mournful cries from within its hollow halls. No one could remember when the house had been built or by whom. It was simply there, as though it had grown from the hill itself, rooted deep in the earth. They said the ground was cursed, that something terrible had happened long ago—something that still lingered. Some nights, flashes of light could be seen through the broken windows, flickering like dying stars, and strange shadows would move where no one dared tread. But tonight, the house waited. Its doors hung slightly ajar, as though it was inviting someone in. A storm rumbled in the distance, but the real storm—of terror, of madness, of death—was only just beginning. Soon, someone would come. And the house would awaken once more.
