Caleb’s P.O.V
I exchanged a glance with Damien, his expression mirroring my unease as we moved further down the hallway. The air was thick, oppressive, carrying the unmistakable stench of decay.
My footfalls stirred up dust from the floor, which was coated in a gritty layer of dirt and debris. I hadn't been to this house when Aurora was still here, but the one thing I could tell was that she was the heart of this house. And now that she no longer lived here, the house seemed to be dying.
I reached out to steady myself against the wall, but immediately drew my hand back in disgust—the surface was slick with dampness, streaked with black mold, and dotted with cobwebs that seemed to move, as if alive.
"This place just keeps getting worse," I muttered, my voice strained. I adjusted my grip on the wall to steady myself; the darkness here had us both using our wolf’s vision. "How the hell did it get like this? It’s like no one’s been here in decades."
Damien, walking slightly ahead of me, paused and turned. His sharp gaze flickered over the mold-covered walls before resting on me.
"You know," he said, his tone ominous, "black mold isn't normal for a human house. It implies something deeper.”
“What do you mean? It’s just mold.” I frowned.
But Damien shook his head, expression solemn. “No, black mold isn’t any kind of mold, it’s…special. Dangerous. It attracts stray spirits. It’s usually related to magic and witchcraft, and not just any magic either…dark magic."
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Stray spirits? Dark magic? Really, Damien? You’re pulling that from some old wives’ tale. Mold doesn’t attract anything but…maybe pests."
"No, I’m serious." He stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing some forbidden knowledge.
"Mold weakens the barriers between realms. It’s like a beacon for lost souls, especially the vengeful ones. It takes a powerful kind of energy to create these molds. And if this house has history—"
"Every house has history," I interrupted, shaking my head. "That doesn’t mean every patch of mold is a gateway for angry ghosts. Come on, man, listen to yourself. It’s just rot and bad maintenance, nothing more."
“Come on, Caleb, you can’t tell me you haven’t been on high alert ever since we entered this darn house! Something is seriously off about this place.”
I shifted uneasily, my eyes darting to the shadows ahead of us. "I don’t know," I said, my voice quieter now. "It does feel... wrong in here. Like the air’s heavier. And that smell—it’s not just the mold or the stench left behind by the body. It’s…I don’t know, I can’t place it, but it just doesn’t fit right in this place."
"Exactly," Damien said, his voice sharp with conviction. "This place isn’t just falling apart. It’s hostile, like it’s rejecting the very idea of us being here. You feel it too, don’t you?"
I opened my mouth to counter him again, but the words caught in my throat as a faint sound echoed down the hallway—a soft creak, like someone shifting their weight on an old, wooden floorboard. We both froze. My eyes darted to Damien, whose whole body stiffened, as if he was waiting for something to jump out of the shadows. His expression was unreadable, but his shoulders were tense, his entire body on alert.
"Tell me that was just the house settling," I whispered, though I didn’t sound convinced. "What else would it be? There’s no one here but us."
Damien took a cautious step forward, his voice dropping even lower. "And whatever else the mold attracts," he said grimly, almost to himself. "You still think this is just rot and bad maintenance?"
I didn’t answer. Not because I agreed with him, but because I couldn’t. The air around us seemed to shift, growing colder, the smell of death and decay stronger with every breath. The hallway ahead seemed darker than before, and even with our heightened vision, it felt difficult to see what was in front of us. My skepticism faltered, just for a moment. Maybe Damien wasn’t entirely wrong.
I ran my hand along the rough edge of the door frame, my thoughts racing as we reached the end of the hallway. Unlike every other door we'd encountered, this one was already open. No busted lock, no pried hinges—just a gaping entrance that seemed to mock the effort Damien and I had spent breaking into the others. I glanced at him, he gave me a nod, his face tense with curiosity. The two of us stepped inside cautiously.
The room was... bare. Completely empty, save for a bed pushed into the corner, its sheets stripped clean. No clothes, no belongings, nothing. My gaze swept over the space, noting the absence of any dust or signs that someone had been here recently. It wasn’t just emptied—it was wiped clean.
“This doesn’t make sense,” I said aloud, the words heavier than I intended. “Who could’ve cleared out this room but left the whole house to rot away? We didn’t see any forced entry. No signs of anyone coming in or out.” I looked at Damien, who was inspecting the walls with a frown.
“It’s like the stuff here just... vanished.”
Damien turned to me, his face as grim as ever. “I don’t think it’s safe for us to be here alone, Caleb,” he said, his voice low. “I can’t shake off this sensation that someone might as well be keeping an eyes on us. Maybe we should come back later with more people?” He shifted uneasily, his eyes darting to the open door.
Before I could respond, a noise outside made us both snap to attention. A low, creaking sound, followed by the unmistakable slam of the front door. My pulse quickened as Damien and I exchanged a glance, then bolted out of the room. Our footsteps echoing in the narrow hallway.
When we reached the front door, it was shut tight, the faint scent of burnt wood hanging in the air. But it wasn’t the door that caught my attention—it was the walls. The black mold that had clung to the corners and edges like a sickness suddenly began to ignite. Thin, unnatural flames licked along the jagged patches, consuming the mold and spreading to the wood or plaster underneath.
“What the hell—” Damien started, but I cut him off, pulling him back as the flames spread faster than seemed possible, racing along the edges of the hallway. The fire wasn’t natural, and neither was the way it seemed to hum, low and menacing, as though it were alive.
“This isn’t just a coincidence,” I muttered, my voice steady despite the rising panic in my chest. “I think we weren’t supposed to see that room. And now they’re making sure we don’t live to tell the tale.”
The heat was unbearable, a thick, suffocating wave pressing against my skin as I slammed my shoulder into the front door again. My wolf roared within me, urging me to keep going, but even with our combined strength, the damn thing didn’t budge. Damien was on my right, his fists pounding furiously against the wood, his growls echoing through the house.
“It’s not moving!” he snapped, his voice tight with frustration. “How the fuck is that even possible? It’s just wood!”
The smoke was getting thicker, curling around us like a living thing, clawing at our throats and stinging our eyes. The fire was relentless, devouring everything in its path, and I could hear the crackle of wood turning to ash all around us.
“Try the windows!” I shouted, already sprinting toward the nearest room. Damien was on my heels, and we split up, moving from room to room in a desperate search for a way out. Each window we tried was the same—bolted shut, unyielding, as if the house itself had turned against us.
My claws scratched at the glass, my fists hammering against the frames, but nothing worked. The fire didn’t care about our efforts. It was everywhere now, creeping along the walls, licking at the edges of furniture, turning the once-familiar house into a blazing hell.
“Caleb! Upstairs!” Damien’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. I spun around, coughing as the smoke filled my lungs, and followed the sound of his footsteps thundering up the stairs.
My muscles burned, and my wolf was restless, urging me to keep moving even as exhaustion tugged at my limbs. When I reached the top, Damien was standing in the hallway, his face slick with sweat and soot, pointing toward a door at the end of the corridor.
“There’s no mold in there!” he shouted. “It’s the only chance we’ve got!”
I didn’t stop to question him. The hallway was a gauntlet of smoke and flame, the heat blistering against my skin, but I pushed through it, throwing the door open and stumbling into the room. Relief hit me like a wave—the air was clearer here, the flames held at bay for now. It took me a second to realize where I was. The scent gave it away first—soft, familiar, like lavender and something faintly sweet.
Aurora’s room.