A single yes led to the darkest night of Evelyn Grant’s life.
It began with a knock.
She had only moved into Pine Hollow a week earlier—a sleepy cul-de-sac lined with identical homes and obsessively trimmed lawns. After the chaos of city life, Evelyn longed for something quieter. Something simpler. Here, she hoped to find peace.
She wasn’t even fully unpacked when her neighbor came calling.
Mrs. Larch was old, with silver hair pulled into a bun so tight it seemed to lift the corners of her wrinkled eyes. She wore an outdated floral dress and smelled faintly of old books and lavender. Her voice was soft, yet there was a sharpness beneath it.
“I hate to ask,” she said, standing stiffly on Evelyn’s front porch, “but I’m taking a last-minute trip. Would you be willing to watch my house? Water the plants, feed the cat, keep an eye on things?”
Evelyn, caught off guard and craving normalcy, said yes.
“Yes, of course. I’d be happy to help.”
She didn’t ask many questions. She didn’t want to seem rude.
That single word—the smallest kindness—echoed louder than it should have.
---
Friday evening arrived, and with it came the key.
The Larch house was dim, draped in lace curtains that filtered the light into strange, dusty patterns. The furniture was old and heavy, made of dark wood that groaned when touched. Dozens of porcelain dolls stared from glass cabinets, each frozen in eerie smiles.
And the smell.
Lavender—and something underneath it. A coppery scent, like rusted metal or dried blood.
Still, Evelyn pushed the unease down.
In the kitchen, she found neatly labeled instructions: feed the cat (twice a day), water the orchids (don’t overwater), and—underlined three times—do not go into the cellar.
That was strange. But it wasn’t her house. She didn’t question it.
There were signs of a cat everywhere: bowls, a litter box, tufts of black fur. But the cat itself never appeared. She called for it, left food, even searched under the furniture, but the creature remained invisible. The food, however, always disappeared by morning.
That night, Evelyn lay on the stiff living room couch, eyes on the ceiling as the house settled around her. She chalked every creak up to age. Old houses made noise.
But by midnight, the creaks had grown rhythmic. Intentional.
Scratching.
From under the floorboards.
Soft at first. Then louder. Claws dragging across wood.
Evelyn sat up, heart pounding. She told herself it was the cat. The missing, skittish cat.
Then she heard the whisper.
Faint. Feminine.
“Help me.”
She froze.
She told herself she imagined it. Lack of sleep. New surroundings. Anxiety.
But the whisper came again, drifting up from the cellar door like mist.
“You said yes.”
She crept to the door, barefoot on creaking floorboards. She didn’t intend to open it. Just… listen.
The door was old, painted white but cracked down the center. The knob was antique brass. It didn’t turn.
Locked.
She exhaled in relief.
Then it turned by itself.
Click.
The door creaked open half an inch. Just enough for darkness to bleed through.
Evelyn stumbled back. “No,” she muttered. “No, I’m not doing this.”
But the whisper replied, gentler this time.
“You already did.”
She slammed the door shut, relocked it, and spent the rest of the night with the lights on. Morning came slowly. Her phone showed no missed calls, no messages. She thought about leaving a note and returning the key. This was someone else’s problem.
But she stayed.
Because she had said yes.
And the house remembered.
---
The second night was worse.
The scratching came earlier. And with it, a second voice—deeper, distorted, like something pretending to sound human.
“You let it in.”
Evelyn stuffed towels beneath the cellar door. She played music on her phone to drown out the noises. She left the hallway lights blazing.
It didn’t help.
At 2 a.m., she woke up somewhere else.
She didn’t remember falling asleep. But when she opened her eyes, she was no longer on the couch.
She stood in a long hallway lined with mirrors. Dozens of them—tall, narrow, all facing her.
In each one, she saw herself.
But the reflections were wrong.
Some screamed silently. Some cried blood. One grinned with rows of jagged, inhuman teeth.
She tried to look away—but her body didn’t move.
Her reflection in the closest mirror leaned forward, though Evelyn hadn’t moved.
Its eyes were hollow.
“Yes,” it mouthed.
“Yes. That was enough.”
Evelyn screamed and ran, mirrors shattering as she passed. The hallway bent and twisted like a maze built from madness.
She flung open the only door that wasn’t locked.
And found herself in the cellar.
---
It was enormous. Far larger than the house could possibly contain. The walls were made of stone, slick with moisture, and pulsing faintly like flesh. Chains dangled from the ceiling. Old stains painted the floor.
And in the far corner, something moved.
It rose like smoke taking shape—tall, thin, inhuman.
It wore the suggestion of a man, but its proportions were all wrong. Its head bent too far forward, arms too long, fingers jointed twice.
Its voice was many voices.
“One yes. That’s all we ever need.”
Evelyn stumbled backward. Her hands found the stairs—but they were gone. The door gone. The light, fading.
“You agreed to care for the house.”
“You agreed to feed me.”
A third voice hissed: “You saw the rules. You stayed anyway.”
The thing stepped forward.
Evelyn turned and ran into the dark.
No matter which way she turned, the cellar went on. Walls shifted. Doors reappeared and vanished. Whispers filled her mind like fog, clawing into her thoughts.
She didn’t remember collapsing.
Only the pain when she woke.
---
She came to in the kitchen, curled beneath the table like a child.
The cellar door was shut. Locked.
The sun shone through the curtains.
Was it a dream?
No.
Her hands were bleeding. Her feet covered in dust and ash. On her arm, four small bruises shaped like fingers.
She called the police.
They found nothing unusual. The basement was a small storage room filled with boxes. The cat, they said, had probably run away.
Evelyn handed Mrs. Larch the key the next day and left Pine Hollow that afternoon.
But the dreams followed.
---
A year later, Evelyn sat in a new apartment, in a new city, with the windows barred and the doors locked tight.
She hadn’t spoken of that night. Couldn’t.
Until the knock came.
She opened the door.
A woman stood there. Pale. Wide-eyed. Clutching a leather purse.
“Hi,” she said, breathless. “Sorry—I live across the hall. I have to leave town for a few days. Would you mind—just for a night—feeding my cat?”
Evelyn's throat went dry.
Behind the woman, in the hallway shadows, something shifted.
Waiting.
She didn’t answer.
But it didn’t matter.
Some doors, once opened, never really close.
---
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