La Maison Dévorante

The iron gate groaned as Étienne Dupont shoved it open, the cold metal scraping against his skin, the rain slicing through the air like knives. The storm was alive, howling in his ears, drowning the world in its fury. The manor loomed ahead, a blackened mass against the churning sky. Every nerve in Étienne’s body screamed for him to turn back, but he couldn’t. Amélie was inside.

He could feel her.

Behind him, Armand stumbled through the mud, his voice almost lost to the storm. “Étienne! Stop! You don’t know what’s in there!”

Étienne didn’t answer. His heart hammered in his chest, his breath sharp and cold. The house called to him, pulling at his gut, pulling him in. He took a step forward, then another. The mud clung to his boots like the hands of the dead, but he tore himself free and climbed the front steps, his fingers trembling as he gripped the doorframe.