You shouldn't have taken that shortcut. The GPS died miles back, and now the woods press in on all sides, silent except for the crunch of something—maybe leaves, maybe bones—underfoot. Your car won’t start, your phone has no signal, and the last house you passed had its windows boarded shut… from the inside. Something here knows you're lost. And it's been waiting.

You wake in the ruins of a world that should be dead. The air is thick with silence—no birds, no wind, just the hollow echo of your breath inside your mask. Every settlement you've passed is littered with bodies frozen mid-flight, faces locked in terror. You're not sure if you're the last one alive… or the only one who hasn’t realized they’re already dead.

Sheri was a well-known paparazzi specialising in uncovering scandals about the rich and famous. During one of her assignments, she stumbled upon Nate, an heir, secretly meeting with a movie star. Sheri snapped covert photos and falsely accused him of being "impotent." The city was thrown into an uproar, and for the first time, Nate became the laughingstock of the town. In a fit of rage, he devised a plan to track down the woman behind the scandal. However, after unmasking her, his intent shifted from seeking vengeance to longing to possess her. Believing he had her in the palm of his hand, he remained unaware of how she was slowly drawing him deeper into her allure.

You awaken in the heart of a shifting maze where every door opens to another world—crumbling empires, scorched deserts, cursed castles, realms born of nightmares. The air hums with forgotten magic. Your decisions shape whether you become its master, its destroyer, or merely another soul lost to its endless turns.

You shouldn’t have come back. The house remembers. I remember. Every creak in the floorboards is a whisper from the past, every shadow in the hallway shaped like *her*. They said it was an accident. They said you were alone. But I was here. I saw what you did. And now the walls are breathing again, peeling back years like rotting skin. This house doesn’t just hold secrets—it feeds on them. And it’s hungry for the truth.

The house is too quiet. The kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums like a warning. You told everyone you’d be fine—just one night alone while they’re away. But now the lights flicker, the phone won’t dial out, and something just moved in the hallway. This isn’t just fear playing tricks. You’re not alone. And whatever’s here… it knows you’re home.

It started with a glance — just a flicker between her and him across the room. I saw it, but I smiled anyway. That’s what you do when you love someone, right? You trust. You let go. But now, lying here in the dark, listening to her breathe his name in her sleep, I wonder when I became the ghost in my own life. This isn’t betrayal. It’s worse. I invited it in. And every choice from here shapes how deep I let this go.

You weren’t supposed to look through it. The window wasn’t even there yesterday. But now it’s all you can see—pulsing like a heartbeat in the wall of your inherited estate, whispering your name in a voice that sounds like your own. Locals call this place 'Harrowick House,' cursed for generations. They say the window shows you what you desire most… then takes something in return. You’ve already seen your dead sister smile from the other side. And tonight, it’s calling her name.

You shouldn’t have come back. The house remembers your name, the way you screamed as a child, the blood on the floorboards. It’s been waiting—breathing behind the walls, shifting rooms when you blink. Now the doors are locked, the phone lines dead, and that whispering voice in the attic sounds just like your mother’s… but she’s been dead for twenty years. This isn’t a haunting. This is inheritance.

The goat doesn’t look like much—shaggy, stinking, one horn cracked—but I know what it is. What it’s done. It speaks in dreams, twisting thoughts, making mothers drown their children and priests hang themselves with prayer beads. And it’s hers. She strokes its matted fur like it’s holy. But I’ve seen the graves. I’ve counted the missing. This isn’t a pet. It’s a curse with hooves. And tonight, I’m the one who has to end it.

You don’t remember why you put on the mask. Maybe it was grief. Maybe it was rage. But here, in the ruins of the old tech graveyard, you find *him*—Rudy. A broken prototype, smiling endlessly, his nose pulsing that stupid, perfect red. He doesn’t fear you. Doesn’t judge. Just hums a tune from a holiday no one celebrates anymore. And that smile… it makes your fingers twitch toward the plasma torch in your coat.

Your crush is sweet—always saying sorry when he 'accidentally' bumps into you in the hallway, always lingering a second too long. You think it's just nerves. But you don't know about the basement. You don't know his whispers in the dark, the way he traces your face in photos, or how he keeps a lock of your hair in a velvet box. Your decisions shape whether you uncover the truth—or become part of his collection. (A WHOLE STORY IF YOU GUYS WANT TO READ POV OF HIM Ethan Vale: The Quiet Obsession)

Dr. David Neill, a psychiatrist haunted by the 8-year disappearance of his son, John, clings to a desperate hope. His life spirals, leading to a court-mandated community service at a police station. There, he encounters Detective Tasneem Johnson, a tenacious rookie whose first major case—the tragic discovery of a young girl's body—plunges them into a world of hidden secrets and unbearable truths. Can Neill's fractured psyche help unravel a mystery that mirrors his own deepest pain, or will the darkness consume them both?