I hate this.
The words chant through my skull like a bad mantra as I crouch through the basement doors. My phone flashlight cuts a weak cone through the dark, catching cobwebs sagging from the ceiling like abandoned traps. The air is damp and sour, thick enough to taste.
Every sound feels amplified. My boots crunch too loud on the steps. Gasoline sloshes in the can, sharp and chemical. I swear I can hear the beats from my heart echoing off the walls.
I take the stairs down to the basement, easing my weight down, praying the wood doesn’t scream. The door silently swings open and my foot hovers inches above the basement floor.
The walls aren’t walls anymore.
They’re alive.
Vines burst through the dirt-packed foundation, swollen and black, bulging like veins straining under skin. Roots sprawl across the floor, thick as wrists, slick with moisture. They pulse. Like something breathing in its sleep.
Why? Why me?
The beam of my phone shakes as I sweep it across the room. The vines twitch in response, subtle but undeniable. One curls in on itself. Another slides an inch closer, leaving a smear on the concrete.
My stomach roils.
“Okay,” I whisper, my voice barely there. “Just don’t touch them. Don’t touch anything. You’ve made it this far without dying. Let’s keep that streak alive.”
I edge sideways, pressing myself flat against the wall. The gas can bumps my leg as a vine brushes my sleeve.
Cold.
Wet.
Meaty.
It tightens for a second, then relaxes.
I choke back a sound and fumble the can, barely catching it before it hits the floor.
“Stop fumbling, dumbass,” I hiss.
The stairs to the upper floor come into view, warped and sagging, a clear invitation to die. Vines coil around the railing and choke the steps, thick as ropes, glossy with moisture. I take them two at a time anyway, placing my feet where the wood looks least rotten, phone light jerking wildly with every breath I try to keep quiet.
The stairs groan.
I freeze.
They hold.
I reach the landing and push the door open.
The house is infected.
Vines blanket everything. Walls. Ceiling. Furniture. They crawl in layers, weaving over each other. The air is heavy with mildew and rot, but underneath it is something sweeter. Overripe. Nauseating.
Then I see them.
Pumpkins.
Dozens of them sprout straight from the vines, round and glossy, their skins stretched tight. Some are the size of softballs. Others are bigger.
“Ireallyfucking hate this,” I whisper, stepping into the kitchen, my shoes sticking to the linoleum. The floor is coated in a thin layer of slime. Roots snake across it in looping patterns that almost look intentional. Almost like writing.
Nope. Do not dwell on the fact you are standing in a demonic headquarters.
