Lachlan Wilston stepped cautiously into the vast, echoing silence of his new home, his footsteps reverberating unnaturally across the polished black concrete floors. The house seemed to swallow the sound, amplifying each movement with a hollow, metallic resonance. He hesitated just past the threshold, letting the heavy front door swing shut behind him with a slow creak and an unsettling click that locked him into the pristine emptiness of the cold, minimalist structure. The air was heavier inside than it had been outside, thick with a faint metallic tang that made his breath hitch. He felt as though he had stepped into a place untouched by human warmth or light, a space that was waiting—not for him, but for something far older, darker, and more insidious.

The front hallway stretched out in both directions, impossibly long and framed by stark white walls that gleamed like bone under the dim, recessed lighting. Shadows danced at the edges of the hall, too deep and alive to be cast by the house's meager lights. He blinked once, twice, but the shadows remained, shifting in ways they shouldn't. Lachlan tried to shake off the unease twisting in his chest. It's just the newness of the place, he told himself. I'll get used to it. But even as he thought it, the house seemed to hum faintly around him, as if responding to his intrusion.

His hand lingered on the strap of the single bag slung over his shoulder. The rest of his belongings were still in the car outside—he hadn't been able to bring himself to unpack yet. Moving into this house had felt more like a compulsion than a choice. The isolated location, the strange silence of the surrounding paddock, and the way the house had been listed at an inexplicably low price—all of it should have been a red flag. But Lachlan had dismissed his doubts. He needed to leave his old life behind, to start fresh, and this cold, empty house felt like the perfect escape from the world that had begun to suffocate him.