Chapter 1 – The New One
The house on Vale Street wasn’t the sort of place people visited willingly.
Its windows were blacked out, its siding gray and peeling, its yard a tangle of weeds and dead grass. Even the street seemed to avoid it: the air around the place felt heavier, thicker, like it was holding its breath.
Wren Calloway slowed at the end of the cracked driveway. She hugged herself against the heat—or maybe against the unease crawling up her spine.
“First impressions?” Rowan Blake asked from beside her, voice low and careful, carrying the warmth of someone who knew she could snap in an instant. He had his camera gear slung over his shoulder but didn’t point it at her. He knew she needed a moment.
Wren gave a small nod. “It’s… quiet.” Her voice was almost swallowed by the oppressive stillness around them. “Too quiet.”
“Quiet houses aren’t always bad,” Rowan said, though he didn’t sound convinced.
She shook her head. “This one is.”
The rest of Black Frequency was already at work.
Declan Rourke, their leader, crouched over blueprints on the hood of the van, barking instructions about camera placements. The man was all business—ex-cop, ex-skeptic turned believer. A command from him felt like a law, and Wren instinctively obeyed.
Silas Reyes adjusted his sensors and microphones, muttering to himself in ways Wren didn’t entirely understand. She caught him glancing at the house as if it might respond, and the sight made her stomach tighten.
Tessa Marlowe documented the perimeter with calm, professional narration, a gentle energy in contrast to the oppressive air. And Jax Ahn, arms crossed, stood at the edge of the driveway like a sentinel, eyes never resting, ready for any threat—even invisible ones.
Wren kept her distance, taking in the scene. She had only met this team once before in person, and she already knew the stories. Psychics didn’t last here. Not one of them.
Jordan. Gone in less than a day. Ripped apart by her own mind.
The police said drugs. Black Frequency didn’t care what the police thought.
Once inside, the house felt worse.
The air was heavy, almost damp, and smelled faintly of rot. Old wallpaper curled in on itself, scorched streaks running along corners of the walls. The staircase spiraled up into darkness, the wood creaking under invisible weight.
Wren paused at the bottom of the stairs. Something pressed against her skull, faint, like a whisper that belonged to someone else. She froze.
“You feel it?” Silas’s voice came from behind her.
Wren swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“What’s it like?” he pressed, calm, almost clinical.
“Like someone is standing behind my eyes,” she whispered. “Watching everything I think before I think it.”
Silas nodded. “It’s waiting.”
The first night fell hard.
The team gathered in the living room, setting up cameras, microphones, EMF readers, and more devices than Wren could name. She sat on the floor with her leather notebook open on her lap, pen shaking in her hand.
It was her habit: writing down impressions, thoughts, whatever her mind spat out before it became chaos. But tonight, she barely wrote words.
The pen moved on its own.
DON’T LET HER OPEN THE DOOR.
DON’T LET HER OPEN THE DOOR.
DON’T LET HER OPEN THE DOOR.
Wren’s head spun. She had no memory of writing that. She didn’t even remember holding the pen.
And then the lights went out.
The living room became a black void, humming faintly with the sound of a house breathing. The shadows seemed to creep along the walls, reaching toward her. Wren’s chest tightened. She could hear a voice under the hum:
“Wren… come in…”
The hair on her arms rose. Rowan’s hand found hers, grounding her, but it didn’t make the voice stop.
It was the house.
And it had already chosen her.
Chapter 2 – The House Breathes
Morning came like a slow weight pressing down on Wren’s chest. The sun tried to pierce through the boarded windows, but it barely made a dent in the oppressive gloom of Vale Street’s haunted house.
Wren sat cross-legged on the floor, her notebook open. She hadn’t slept much. She could still hear the faint hum under the house, like it was breathing in sync with her own pulse. Every creak of the wood above made her jump.
Rowan crouched beside her, holding a mug of coffee. “You slept at all?” he asked gently.
Wren shook her head. “Not really. I… I feel like it’s inside me.”
“You’re not the first,” Rowan said softly. “And probably not the last. But you’re… different.”
Different. That thought twisted her stomach. She wasn’t supposed to be alive here, or sane. And yet, something about her made the house hesitate—or maybe it was curious.
The team started the day with a walkthrough. Cameras, EMF readers, thermal sensors, motion detectors—Black Frequency’s usual setup. But the house didn’t behave like any place they’d encountered before.
Doors slammed themselves shut, windows rattled with no wind, and the floorboards above whispered like a thousand footsteps marching slowly, endlessly.
Wren kept her eyes on the walls. She could see it—the energy shifting, like black smoke curling just beneath the surface. The house was alive. It knew them.
When she walked near a mirror in the hallway, her reflection lagged behind her movements by a heartbeat. She froze, hand halfway to the wall. Rowan’s hand found hers again.
“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s just—”
He stopped.
Wren knew. The house wasn’t just playing tricks. It was watching. Learning.
Upstairs, the door at the end of the hall drew her like a magnet. Three reinforced deadbolts, black streaks blooming around the frame. The house had kept it shut for decades, but Wren felt its pull through her chest.
Tessa noticed. “That’s the room,” she said quietly. “No one’s gone past that door and lived.”
Wren swallowed. Something cold brushed the back of her mind, and she almost ran from it. Instead, she whispered, “It wants me.”
Declan shot her a look, sharp and wary. “Don’t even think about it.”
But Wren already had.
By midday, Wren’s empathic senses were screaming. She could feel fragments of the previous psychics—their terror, the panic, the moments before their breakdowns. The house was feeding on it. Every heartbeat, every pulse of fear, it memorized.
She staggered into the living room, dropping to her knees. Her hands shook. “It’s—everybody…it’s still here. I can feel them!”
Silas approached slowly, EMF reader blinking red. “It’s not the first time we’ve had a psychic freak out,” he said carefully. “But you’re different. You feel everything. Don’t fight it—let it guide you.”
Guide her? Wren didn’t know whether she wanted to scream or run. She wanted both.
The first encounter with the Room came that evening. The team gathered in the living room to review the camera feeds. Wren had taken a seat against the wall, notebook closed, trying to ground herself.
A sudden thud upstairs froze them all. Then another. Then a scraping, like fingernails across wood.
Jax’s hand went to his belt. “We’ve got a human intruder?” he muttered.
“No,” Declan said. His voice was clipped. “That’s the house.”
The temperature dropped. Wren’s breath fogged in front of her face. The hum she had been hearing since morning intensified, vibrating through the floor and into her chest. Then she heard it—the voice, low and grinding:
“Wren… come in… it’s your turn…”
She jerked back, eyes wide. Rowan’s hand found hers, but the connection was thin, fragile.
She couldn’t run. She couldn’t fight. She could only listen.
The house was calling her.
And the 24-hour countdown had already begun.
Chapter 3 – The Locked Door
The hallway smelled of mildew and old wood, but Wren Calloway didn’t notice. She couldn’t.
Her senses were already overloaded. The house was alive, whispering, breathing, curling around her thoughts like smoke. Every footstep she took left a faint echo that didn’t belong to her.
The team had gathered upstairs, near the door at the end of the hall. Three reinforced deadbolts glinted under the dim light, and the black stains along the edges seemed to pulse, subtle but deliberate.
“That’s it,” Tessa Marlowe said, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s the Room.”
Wren’s stomach twisted. She felt it—like a heartbeat under the floorboards, like the house was flexing its muscles. Something in her chest throbbed in rhythm with the pulsing stain.
“I can feel it,” Wren admitted, voice shaking. “It’s… alive. And it’s waiting for me.”
Declan Rourke’s eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t wait—it chooses. And it’s chosen before.”
Before. Before what?
Wren didn’t ask. She already knew the answer: before her.
Silas Reyes knelt near the door, EMF reader in hand. The numbers jumped erratically, climbing into ranges no sensor should ever detect. He swallowed hard.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” he muttered. “It’s… it’s a concentration of psychic energy. All the previous sensitives… it absorbed them. Stored them. I don’t know how it’s doing it, but—”
“It’s alive,” Wren said flatly, more statement than question.
“Yes,” Silas said. “And it’s waiting for the next one. You, Wren. It knows.”
Rowan stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder. “It won’t take you,” he said firmly. “Not while I’m here.”
Wren appreciated the attempt, but she could feel the Room’s presence pushing back. Like a current she couldn’t swim against. It whispered fragments of voices—screams, laughter, pleading, promises she couldn’t decipher.
And all of it was aimed at her.
The first physical warning came that night.
While the team set up sensors and cameras in the living room, Wren tried to rest. She sat in the corner with her notebook, pen in hand, but the shadows in the room began to shift.
First it was subtle. A chair moving slightly, a curtain twitching. Then the floorboards groaned under invisible weight, and the hum started—a deep, vibrating sound that felt like it was inside her skull.
She froze. Her pen moved on its own again:
OPEN IT.
She dropped the notebook, heart hammering.
Rowan grabbed her arm. “Wren—stop it. Focus on me.”
But the house didn’t stop.
A sudden slam echoed from upstairs. The door at the end of the hall rattled violently, and a low, grinding voice seeped into the room:
“Wren… come in… it’s your turn…”
She wanted to scream, but no sound came. Her throat felt paralyzed, like the Room was pressing its fingers around it.
Silas checked the sensors frantically, muttering numbers. “It’s… it’s building pressure… like a psychic… vacuum…”
Jax stepped forward, fists clenched. “We need to leave. Now.”
Declan shook his head. “We can’t. Not yet. We observe, we record, we survive.”
Wren’s hands shook. The floor beneath her seemed to ripple like water. Voices surged in her head, overlapping, tearing at her focus. And she realized the truth:
The Room wasn’t just behind that door. It was inside her now.
By midnight, Wren’s perception of the house had shifted entirely. Corners no longer felt right; walls seemed slightly closer or farther depending on where she looked. Shadows moved in impossible ways. And every creak, every whisper, every vibration in the floor spoke directly to her:
“Open it… Open it… Open it…”
She curled into herself, trying to block the voices, but one fragment slipped through—Jordan’s scream, her last moment before the Room claimed her.
Wren trembled, whispering, “Not me. Not me.”
The door at the end of the hall groaned as if mocking her.
And somewhere deep in the house, the Room waited.
Chapter 4 – Echoes of Madness
The house didn’t just whisper anymore.
It shouted.
Wren Calloway sat pressed against the wall at the top of the staircase, knees pulled to her chest. Her head throbbed in time with the low hum beneath the floorboards, the vibrations crawling into her bones. Every shadow in the hallway seemed to stretch toward her, reaching out like skeletal fingers.
“Wren, you with me?” Rowan’s voice broke through the haze, steady but strained. He crouched beside her, hand on her arm. “Focus on my voice. Mine, not theirs.”
She tried. She really tried.
But the house didn’t want her to listen.
The first attack came silently.
A floorboard shifted beneath Tessa as she checked a camera placement, sending her sprawling forward. Silas shrieked as the EMF sensors went haywire, static filling the room and somehow burning through his headphones. Jax gritted his teeth as the lights flickered violently, plunging them into shadows that moved on their own.
Declan barked orders, but even he hesitated. Nothing responded like a normal house. No, the walls themselves were alive, pulsing with energy, almost breathing.
Wren felt the emotions first: fear, terror, rage—memories of the previous psychics, broken and screaming, overlapping and colliding. She could see them, faint echoes in the air, clawing at the team, at her.
Her chest tightened. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think.
And then she heard a familiar, sickening whisper:
“Wren… come in… it’s your turn…”
She bolted.
Not down the stairs. Not toward the living room. Toward the only room she could see: the locked door at the end of the hall.
“Wren!” Rowan shouted, chasing her, but he couldn’t reach her in time.
The house seemed to warp around her. Hallway lengths stretched and shrank. Shadows spun like living things. The door at the end of the hall—the sealed Room—loomed impossibly tall, black stains crawling up its surface as if alive.
She pressed her hand against it. Heat radiated from the door. Energy surged through her.
Visions crashed into her mind. Jordan, screaming. Another psychic, clawing at walls. Blood, black smoke, walls that weren’t walls, floors that weren’t floors. Wren stumbled back, collapsing to the floor.
Her notebook opened on its own, pen scribbling frantic words she couldn’t control:
OPEN IT… THEY ARE WAITING… THEY NEED ME…
Rowan grabbed her, pulling her away from the door. “Wren! Snap out of it!”
But the Room wasn’t done.
The walls groaned. A chandelier swung violently, smashing into the floorboards. The lights shattered. Tessa screamed as something invisible slammed into her, pinning her to the ground. Silas shouted as the EMF reader floated from his hands, spinning in the air like it had its own life.
And Wren? Wren’s mind began to fracture. Every fragment of emotion, every psychic residue she had ever absorbed, amplified tenfold. The house whispered in hundreds of voices at once, a cacophony that made her teeth ache, her skin crawl.
She curled into herself, rocking back and forth, trying to block it out.
But it was no use.
Finally, a moment of clarity.
She could feel a pattern within the chaos. The Room’s energy pulsed, expanding, retracting, like a heartbeat. And at its center was a singular truth: the Room wasn’t trying to destroy them yet. It was testing. Sorting.
Wren’s empathic gift flared, blazing to life. She reached out, touching the chaos, guiding it instead of fleeing. It felt like standing in the eye of a storm while the wind tried to tear her apart.
And then… silence.
The house retreated. Not gone, not quiet, just… waiting.
The team stared at her, wide-eyed, shaken. Rowan held her tightly. “You… survived,” he said softly.
Wren shook. “For now,” she whispered.
Because she knew the Room had only just begun.
The 24-hour countdown wasn’t a threat anymore. It was a promise.
And the house had picked its prey.
Chapter 5 – 24 Hours
The sun had barely risen when Wren Calloway realized the house was changing faster than she could keep up.
The walls didn’t stay the same. The floors didn’t stay level. Hallways she had walked down safely yesterday now twisted impossibly, doors appearing where none had been, corners folding inward like paper.
The team was gathered in the living room, all of them pale, tense, their equipment scattered across the floor.
Declan paced like a caged predator. “Everyone listen. Every psychic—or sensitive—who enters that house dies within 24 hours. That’s the pattern. That’s why the previous teams never returned.”
Tessa’s hands shook as she clutched her camera. “We’re already past 12 hours. If we don’t leave…”
“We can’t leave,” Declan snapped. “Not yet. Observation first. Survival second. If we panic now, it wins.”
Wren hugged herself, chest tight. Her gift screamed louder than ever. She could feel the echoes of Jordan and the others, fractured remnants of minds destroyed by the Room. Their fear was raw, bitter, and almost tangible.
And it wasn’t just echoes anymore. The Room was tapping into the living.
It started small.
Silas froze mid-step, staring at the wall as if it were a living thing. “I… I see them,” he whispered. “The past… they’re here… behind the walls.”
Suddenly, a floorboard above cracked, then splintered. The sound was deafening, like someone had slammed a baseball bat through the wood.
Tessa screamed as she was thrown against the far wall by an invisible force. Jax lunged for her, but his grip found nothing. The room seemed to vibrate in response to Wren’s heartbeat.
And then came the whispers. Hundreds of voices, overlapping, relentless, chanting her name:
“Wren… Wren… Wren…”
She pressed her palms to her ears. The voices weren’t in her head—they were in the house, in the air, inside the walls, inside her.
Rowan grabbed her arm. “We need to move! Now!”
Wren shook her head. She couldn’t move. She had to understand. The Room wasn’t random—it followed a rhythm, a pattern. Every movement, every sound, every pulse was deliberate.
She closed her eyes, letting the whispers wash over her. Memories of the previous psychics poured into her mind—visions of terror, despair, and finally, madness. Their screams weren’t just memories anymore; they were instructions, warnings, pleas.
“Stop it!” Declan shouted, trying to drag her away. But Wren’s body froze, compelled to listen.
And that’s when she realized:
The 24-hour mark wasn’t a timer. It was a cycle. The Room absorbed, tested, and then claimed. It had chosen her—but it had given her time to fight back.
The first physical manifestation of the Room’s power came next.
Shadows stretched across the walls, thick and writhing, like black liquid crawling toward the team. Objects flew off tables, smashing into walls. Cameras shattered. Wren felt cold fingers brush her skin, not her own, not human.
Jax fought back, swinging at nothing, but the air itself resisted him. Tessa was pinned to the wall again, struggling against an invisible grip. Silas screamed as the sensors spun wildly, EMF readings hitting impossible numbers.
And Wren—Wren felt it all. The fear. The hunger. The need. The Room wasn’t just attacking; it was probing, searching for weakness.
Finally, a surge of focus.
Wren took a deep breath and forced herself to push back. Her gift flared, like a light in the darkness. She reached out with her empathic energy, touching the chaos, trying to steady it, organize it, bend it.
It worked—just enough. The shadows retreated slightly, the air grew still, and the room fell into an uneasy quiet.
Rowan held her tightly, eyes wide. “You… did that?”
“I think… I slowed it,” Wren whispered, trembling. “But it’s not gone. It’s waiting. Watching. Calculating.”
Declan’s face was grim. “It’s testing you. And the clock? It hasn’t even finished its first cycle.”
Wren’s stomach turned. She realized the truth in a flash: surviving 24 hours wasn’t a guarantee. It was just the first level of the Room’s game. And the house had many levels.
The Room had begun to claim its territory.
And Wren Calloway was the prize.
Chapter 6 – The First Collapse
By the time night fell, the house had fully claimed its presence.
It didn’t just whisper anymore. It moved. It breathed. It watched—and it had begun choosing who to target first.
Wren Calloway huddled in the corner of the living room, notebook open, pen trembling in her hand. Her chest ached from absorbing the chaos around her—the fear of her team, the residual terror of past psychics, and the unrelenting pulse of the Room.
Rowan crouched beside her, hand on her shoulder. “Focus on me,” he urged again, but even his voice couldn’t fully cut through the madness.
The house pushed back.
The first collapse happened to Tessa.
She had been adjusting a camera in the hallway when the walls seemed to bend around her. Shadows reached out, stretching along the floor and ceiling. A chair flew from the dining room, striking her shoulder with bone-cracking force.
“Help me!” she screamed, pinned against the wall by an invisible weight. Her eyes darted wildly, seeing things no human should—fractured visions of the previous psychics clawing at her, screaming in her mind.
Wren tried to reach her, but the Room’s influence pulled her back, making her chest seize with pain. She felt Tessa’s terror as if it were her own.
Rowan dove forward, tackling Tessa to the floor. Declan and Jax flanked them, shouting instructions, but it was chaos. Every object, every shadow, every floorboard seemed to have its own life.
Silas was next.
His EMF sensors spun out of control, static cutting through his headphones and into his skull. Wren could feel his fear spike, then melt into panic. He dropped the equipment, clutching his head, muttering incoherent phrases.
“Not again!” Wren whispered under her breath. The fragments of Jordan, of every previous sensitive, pressed against her mind, trying to push her over the edge too.
It was too much.
And then the whispers started talking.
Not just low murmurs or fragmented phrases. Complete thoughts, coherent and sinister.
“Give yourself to us… come in… let go…”
Wren’s knees buckled. She collapsed to the floor, vision swimming with images of the Room: walls bending, blood running up the ceiling, psychics clawing at themselves. The echoes weren’t just memories—they were warnings, instructions, traps.
She screamed into her notebook, pen moving frantically on its own:
DON’T. LET. IT. TAKE. YOU.
Rowan caught her arm, dragging her upright. “You can fight this. You have to!”
But Wren knew the truth: the fight wasn’t just physical. The Room attacked the mind, the soul, the very sense of self. It was a predator, and she was prey.
Her gift flared, bright and hot. She extended herself into the chaos, absorbing the lingering terror, trying to focus it, trying to push it back. The shadows recoiled slightly, giving the team a moment of quiet—but Wren’s chest burned from the effort.
She was changing. She could feel it. The Room had marked her. Her empathy had become both shield and weapon, but each use made the whispers inside her grow louder.
By dawn, the team was shattered.
Tessa sat slumped against the wall, pale and shaking. Silas rocked in a corner, muttering about “seeing them all.” Jax and Declan had barely slept, eyes wide and unblinking, scanning the walls for movement that wasn’t there.
And Wren?
She had survived. For now. But she could feel the Room pulsing beneath the floorboards, inside the walls, and most terrifying of all, inside her.
The 24-hour countdown hadn’t ended—it had just begun.
The house wasn’t done.
And Wren Calloway was far from safe.
Chapter 7 – Inside the Room
The air upstairs was thicker than ever, like it had weight.
Wren Calloway stood at the top of the stairs, staring at the sealed door at the end of the hall. Three reinforced deadbolts. Black stains radiating outward like spilled ink. And a presence that seemed to reach into her chest, tugging at her very heartbeat.
She could hear them—the echoes of the previous psychics. Whispers. Screams. Pleas.
“Open it… Open it… Open it…”
Her knees shook. Rowan reached for her hand, but she shook him off. She couldn’t stop now. She had to see it, had to understand it.
The rest of Black Frequency followed cautiously. Declan’s jaw was tight. Tessa clutched her camera like a weapon, eyes wide. Silas’s sensors floated erratically, glowing red and buzzing like broken static. Jax stayed close, fists clenched, ready to fight… but even he looked uneasy.
“It’s… it’s calling you,” Silas whispered, voice trembling. “It doesn’t want us. It wants you.”
Wren swallowed hard. “I know.”
The door seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting subtly, black stains shifting like veins beneath the surface. Wren felt a pull stronger than gravity itself, tugging her forward.
Rowan grabbed her shoulder again. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
“I do,” she said quietly. “It’s my turn.”
She pressed a hand to the door. Heat radiated from it, coursing through her arm and into her chest. Images exploded behind her eyes: Jordan clawing at the walls, Tessa’s visions from earlier, Silas screaming as the sensors fried in his ears. The past psychics weren’t just memories—they were traps, feeding the Room’s hunger.
The door groaned. A low, grinding sound like metal scraping against bone. Shadows spilled from the cracks, dark and writhing, crawling up the walls and stretching toward the ceiling.
And then the Room spoke.
“Wren… inside… come in… let go…”
It wasn’t just a voice. It was every voice. Every psychic that had died. Every scream, every terror, every plea for mercy, all at once, echoing in her mind.
She stumbled back, knees hitting the floor. Rowan caught her. “Fight it! Don’t let it take you!”
Wren’s chest burned. Her empathy flared, searing the air around her as she tried to push back the psychic energy. But the Room was stronger than anything she had ever felt. It pressed into her, folding her sense of reality, twisting her perceptions.
Tessa screamed as the walls of the hallway seemed to bend inward, the floor rippling like liquid. Silas yelled as the EMF sensors flew from his hands, spinning in the air, sparks flying. Jax swung at shadows that had form, punching nothing but air, but the shadows struck back—hard, crushing, invisible.
Declan grabbed Wren, dragging her down the hall. “We need to leave, now! You can’t fight it forever!”
But Wren shook him off. “No. Not yet. I have to…”
Her voice broke. She could feel the Room inside her, probing her mind, clawing at her empathy. It wanted control. It wanted surrender.
Wren closed her eyes and reached out, extending her gift fully. She touched the chaos, tried to organize it, to calm it, to find the pattern that could save them all. Shadows recoiled slightly, walls groaned, the air quivered—but the Room didn’t retreat entirely.
It was a standoff.
And Wren knew something terrifying: the Room had learned her. It wasn’t just testing her strength—it was studying her, understanding her limits, waiting for the moment she faltered.
Hours passed—or maybe minutes. Time had lost all meaning upstairs.
Finally, the first flicker of calm returned. The shadows shrank slightly, the hum softened, and the door’s black stains pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat in the dark.
Wren collapsed against the wall, breathing ragged. Rowan knelt beside her, holding her close.
“You did it,” he whispered.
“No,” Wren said hoarsely. “It’s still here. And it’s… patient. It’s waiting.”
Declan’s face was grim. “It’s not just a house. It’s a predator. And it won’t stop until it gets what it wants.”
Wren stared at the door. She knew the truth.
The Room had chosen her.
And the only way to survive was to face it.
Chapter 8 – Survival Test
The house no longer felt like a building.
It felt like a living thing, breathing, pulsing, stretching and folding around the team as they tried to gather their wits. Shadows slithered across walls and floors, defying the angles of the rooms. Air vibrated with whispers, hundreds of voices all speaking at once—pleas, screams, taunts, commands.
And at the center of it all, Wren Calloway stood alone.
The locked door at the end of the hall loomed like a black void, pulsing with malevolent energy. The Room had waited, patient, calculating… and now it was ready to test her.
Rowan stayed close, holding her hand. “You don’t have to do this alone,” he said, voice calm but strained.
Wren shook her head. “I do. It wants me. And if I don’t face it, it’ll destroy us all.”
Declan’s jaw tightened. “Then we do this smart. Cover her. Watch for anything that moves. Everyone else—stay alert.”
Silas’s EMF sensors spun wildly, buzzing with electricity. Tessa gripped her camera, filming the hallway as if documenting their deaths. Jax flexed his fists, ready for anything—even if it wasn’t human.
Wren stepped forward. Each footfall felt heavy, like the air itself resisted her. The whispers clawed at her mind:
“Come in… come in… let go… surrender… Wren…”
She closed her eyes and reached out.
Her empathy flared like fire. She extended it into the house, into the chaos, into the shadows themselves. The Room responded. Walls groaned, shadows recoiled, the floor vibrated violently. The voices screamed, overlapping, trying to overwhelm her.
Fight me… fight me… give in…
Wren forced herself to organize the psychic energy, pushing it outward instead of letting it push her inward. She absorbed fragments of the previous psychics’ suffering, tried to focus them, and in return, she felt a strange clarity—like the Room had revealed its pattern.
She understood, finally, what it was: a predator, yes. But a calculated one. It hunted fear, confusion, and hesitation.
It wanted surrender. And Wren refused to give it.
The first physical attack came suddenly.
The walls bent inward. Shadows erupted from the floor, slamming into Jax and Declan. Tessa screamed as objects flew at her from every direction. Silas staggered, sensors sparking, clutching his head.
Wren extended her hands, sending a wave of empathic energy out like a shockwave. Shadows recoiled, the whispers faltered, and the flying objects slowed, as if the house itself hesitated.
But it wasn’t enough.
The Room fought back harder, sending visions directly into her mind: Jordan clawing at walls, screaming. Blood. Black smoke. Twisted, distorted reflections of her team.
She collapsed to her knees, forcing herself to breathe. Each inhalation felt like pulling fire into her lungs. Each heartbeat throbbed with the Room’s pulse.
Rowan knelt beside her, pressing a hand to her back. “Wren, you’re stronger than it thinks. You are stronger than it thinks.”
She gritted her teeth. “I have to end this… or we’re all dead.”
The shadows recoiled again, the whispers faltering. The door pulsed violently. And then Wren understood—the Room wasn’t just a predator. It was a test. It would push, twist, and break them. But if she could stay one step ahead, survive its assaults, it would eventually reveal its weakness.
And she was ready.
The team had been battered. Bruised. Mentally shredded. But they were alive—just barely.
Wren rose to her feet, shoulders trembling, eyes locked on the door. She knew what had to happen next.
The Room had underestimated her.
And now it would pay.
Chapter 9 – Breaking the Cycle
The door at the end of the hall pulsed like a living heartbeat.
Wren Calloway stood before it, body trembling, but eyes burning with determination. Every whisper, every shadow, every fragment of fear and terror from the previous psychics pressed against her mind—but she pushed back.
Rowan crouched beside her, hand on her shoulder. “This is it,” he said quietly. “We get through this, we survive. Together.”
Wren shook her head. “It’s my fight. It’s inside me now. If I falter, it wins.”
Declan, Tessa, Silas, and Jax formed a loose circle behind her, weapons and sensors ready, but silent. They trusted her. They had to.
The Room was patient. It knew their fear.
She pressed her palm against the blackened door. The energy surged into her like molten metal, every fragment of terror from psychics long dead crashing into her consciousness. She screamed, not just from pain but from the sheer magnitude of the Room’s force.
“Give yourself… let go… Wren…”
“No,” she shouted. “I won’t! Not you. Not them. Not me!”
Her empathy flared, a blinding pulse radiating through the hallway. Shadows writhed, then recoiled. Whispers stuttered, then paused. The floor vibrated violently.
And then she saw it.
The Room wasn’t just a house. It was a mirror of every psychic it had ever consumed. Fear, confusion, despair—they all made it stronger. But it had a weakness. It relied on surrender.
Wren inhaled sharply, focusing every shred of herself. She projected calm, focus, and defiance.
You cannot have me, she thought.
The black door cracked. Shadows erupted like smoke, swirling into a vortex that tried to pull her in. The air turned icy, static, suffocating. Wren stumbled, vision blurring with images of previous psychics clawing at her, pleading, screaming.
“Wren!” Rowan shouted. He lunged to catch her, but she raised a hand. “No! I have to do this.”
She stepped forward, letting the Room crash against her. Instead of fleeing, she embraced it. She felt its hunger, its rage, its patience. And she held it steady.
The energy pulsed violently—and then, Wren surged back.
A wave of empathic force exploded from her, slamming into the shadows. The whispers shattered, broken, fading. The air cleared. The door stopped pulsing.
The Room’s presence didn’t vanish—it receded, shrinking, curling back into itself—but it was weakened, restrained.
The team stared, wide-eyed, breathless.
Silas whispered, “She… she contained it.”
Tessa shook, voice trembling. “I thought we were done for… I didn’t think anyone could survive it.”
Rowan held Wren tightly. “You did it,” he said, voice breaking.
Wren sank to her knees, shaking, chest heaving. “It’s… still there. Waiting. But I think… I’ve broken the cycle. For now.”
Declan approached, scanning the hallway cautiously. “It’s not gone, but it’s… quiet. Temporary calm.”
The house groaned, settling back into an uneasy stillness. The black stains on the door remained, faintly pulsing—but the immediate threat had passed.
Wren looked at the team, exhausted but resolute. “We survived. But this house… it’s alive. And it doesn’t forget.”
Rowan nodded. “Then we make sure it never forgets us either.”
For the first time since entering the house, Wren felt something like hope. She had faced the Room—and she had survived.
But deep down, she knew:
The Room would wait.
And the next psychic who entered its doors might not be so lucky.
Chapter 10 – The Last Seal
The house had gone quiet.
Not peaceful quiet, not safe quiet—just empty quiet, like a predator that had paused its hunt.
Wren Calloway stood at the foot of the stairs, trembling, notebook clutched to her chest. Her chest ached, her head throbbed, and every nerve in her body screamed from the assault of the Room.
Rowan knelt beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “It’s done. We survived.”
Wren shook her head. “No. It’s still there. Waiting. Watching. Remembering.”
Declan checked the locks on the door to the Room at the end of the hall. “Temporary calm. That’s all we’ve got. If someone enters again… it’ll be ready.”
Tessa lowered her camera, voice shaky. “We need to leave. Now. Before it decides to test us again.”
Silas, pale and still shaking from the EMF feedback, nodded. “I’ve never seen energy readings like that. The Room… it’s a psychic predator. It adapts, evolves. Whoever built it—or whatever it is—didn’t just make a haunted house. They made a trap.”
Wren stood and took a deep breath, the memories of the previous psychics flashing in her mind. She could still hear them—their fear, their panic, their pleading. But now, she understood. She could feel their energy stabilizing, no longer screaming into her mind.
Rowan put a hand on her shoulder. “You did it, Wren. You faced it and didn’t break. That’s more than anyone else could do.”
“I… I barely made it,” she whispered, voice cracking. “It wanted me… but I didn’t give in. I don’t know how long I can… hold this.”
“You won’t have to hold it alone,” Rowan said firmly. “We’ll get out. We’ll get help. And then…” He glanced at the blackened door. “…we seal it, somehow. Make sure no one else suffers like this.”
Wren nodded, though unease lingered. The Room wasn’t gone. It had been contained, yes—but only for now. It was patient. It would wait for the next psychic, the next sensitive, the next foolhardy team to enter its walls.
The team gathered their equipment and prepared to leave. Every step toward the front door felt heavier, as if the house itself was reluctant to let them go. Shadows lingered just at the edges of vision. Whispers barely audible trailed them through the hallways.
But Wren didn’t falter. Not this time.
She could feel the Room’s pull weakening, and in that weakness lay hope.
Outside, the air was crisp, a quiet contrast to the chaos they’d endured. The sun rose over the property, painting the world in gold and pale blues. For the first time since entering the house, Wren felt breathable air, freedom, and a strange sense of relief.
They didn’t speak much on the way back to the van. Words seemed inadequate. Trauma hung between them like thick fog.
Rowan glanced at Wren. “You’re going to need time to process all of this.”
She nodded. “Yeah. I… I think I understand it now. The Room… it feeds on fear, chaos, surrender. But it can be resisted. I can resist it.”
Jax gave a low whistle. “Good thing you were the one it picked. I don’t think the rest of us would’ve survived that.”
Declan didn’t answer. He drove silently, eyes fixed on the road. He didn’t need to speak. They all knew what had happened, and they all knew the danger wasn’t fully gone.
Wren looked out the van window as the house receded into the distance, blackened and still, like a wound on the earth.
She pressed a hand to her chest. The energy inside her had changed. Stronger, sharper, more controlled. She had faced the Room—and survived.
But she knew deep down, as the van rolled away, that one day she might have to return. One day, someone would open that door again.
And the Room would be waiting.
Epilogue – Shadows Behind the Door
The blackened house sat quietly under the rising sun. No one approached. No one dared.
Inside, the Room pulsed softly, like a heartbeat echoing through empty halls. It had not forgotten. It had only waited.
And somewhere, deep in the shadows, fragments of psychic energy whispered, ready for the next visitor…
The Room waits.
The End