The Echo Of Ashes.

Chapter 4: The Final Reckoning Jake and Sarah rushed to the scene, drawn by Eliza’s shriek. They found Eliza leaning against the wall, shaking uncontrollably, pointing a trembling finger at the closed door. The sight of the blood on Eliza’s face, the knowledge of what lay behind that door, finally broke the last vestiges of their denial. Sarah, who had been struggling with her own sanity since Marcus’s death, let out a low, guttural moan and sank to the floor, covering her ears. Jake, however, felt a cold, hard clarity descend. This wasn't normal. The fan blade was not an accident; it was a weapon. The house was not a shelter; it was a cage. His suspicion had solidified into a grim, unshakeable certainty: the house was alive, and it was hunting them. Driven by a desperate need to reclaim some control, Jake ignored the whimpering Sarah and the catatonic Eliza. He then strode to the woodshed, the rain-slicked ground barely registering beneath his feet, and returned with the heavy, steel-headed axe. He went straight to the front door, the one they had all tried to open hours ago. It was sealed tight, the wood swollen and the frame warped. With a primal roar that was half grief for Clara and half pure, focused rage against the house, Jake swung the axe until the door burst inward, revealing the cold, moonlit night and the raging storm. They carried Clara's body out first. The act of moving her, of seeing her still, pale face under the stars, was a final, devastating goodbye. Jake dug a shallow grave in the overgrown garden, the earth surprisingly soft and yielding. He buried her quickly, Eliza standing vigil, their tears mixing with the damp soil. "We're out," Eliza pleaded, her voice hoarse. "We broke the door. Let's just run." But Jake shook his head, his eyes fixed on the dark, looming silhouette of the house. "No. If we run, we just take the curse with us. We need to know what this is. We need to know what this is. We need to stop it." Jake re-entered the house, leaving Eliza huddled by Clara's fresh grave. He began tearing through the house, searching for anything that could explain the malevolence. Eliza, meanwhile, stumbled into the nearest bathroom. She turned on the tap, splashing cold water onto her face, scrubbing frantically at the dried, sticky blood. It wouldn't come off. It was everywhere—in her hair, under her nails, staining her clothes. The more she scrubbed, the more the metallic scent seemed to cling to her, a constant, sickening reminder of Clara’s final moment. Jake’s search led him to the back of a dusty closet where he pushed aside a heavy wardrobe to reveal a tiny, hidden room. Inside, on a small, scarred wooden table, sat an old, leather-bound diary. This was not the answer he sought, but a terrifying new chapter. As Jake reached for the book, the pages began to flip violently. A chorus of faint, overlapping WHISPERS filled the small room. On the blank pages, ink began to bloom like dark blood, chronicling their nightmare with terrifying precision. A detailed, charcoal-like drawing appeared on the page: Marcus, twisted and crushed. Beside it, a new sketch formed—Clara, the fan blade embedded in her neck. "It's... it's writing what happened," Jake stammered, his eyes wide with horror. The whispers grew louder, more frantic. The ink began to swirl again, forming a single, jagged sentence that took up both pages: NO ONE GETS OUT ALIVE. The words seemed to vibrate on the page. Suddenly, a loud, piercing SCREAM erupted from the very walls of the house—a sound so filled with rage and agony that it felt like it would shatter their bones. The house-shaking scream was immediately followed by a high-pitched, human shriek from the main room. "Sarah!" Eliza screamed, rushing out of the bathroom, her face still streaked with blood and water. Jake scrambled out of the hidden room, leaving the terrifying diary behind. They rushed into the dining room. Sarah was sitting at the large wooden table, her head bowed low, her face obscured by her long, dark hair. She was whispering, a rapid, guttural stream of words that sounded less like a language and more like a demonic chant. In her hand, she held a sharp kitchen knife, which she was rhythmically poking into the tabletop. Jake and Eliza watched, paralyzed. Then, Sarah’s head darted up with impossible speed, revealing an eye that was no longer her own—it was a sickly, burning yellow. She looked directly at them, a wide, unnatural smile stretching her lips. "She's coming," Sarah hissed, the voice not hers, but a dry, ancient rasp. She let out a manic, echoing HAHAHAHAHAHA that scraped against the silence. Before Jake or Eliza could move, Sarah reversed the knife, raised her arm high, and with a single, brutal thrust, plunged the blade deep into her own temple. The sound was a sickening, wet crunch. Sarah’s body slumped forward onto the table, the knife handle jutting from her head, her blood pooling quickly onto the polished wood. With Sarah gone, the house seemed to settle, the air growing colder and quieter. Eliza was catatonic, curled up in a corner, her spirit broken. Jake, however, was driven by a grim determination. He knew the actively writing diary was a trap, a lure. He needed the truth. He began to check the house systematically, room by room, searching for the root of the evil. It was in the dusty, forgotten study that he found a small, black, cloth-covered diary—the journal of Eleanor Vance. He opened the diary, and the secrets spilled out. The house was not merely haunted; it was a physical manifestation of a centuries-old curse. November 3rd, 1926 I know its name now. It is not a demon, but a soul—a soul consumed by vengeance. The townspeople call her Margarita. They accused her of witchcraft, of blighting their crops and sickening their children. They dragged the old woman to the town square and burned her alive. As the flames consumed her, she screamed a curse on the town for accusing her of witchcraft and burning her alive. She swore that the fear and the pain they inflicted would be returned a hundredfold, and that the ground would forever hunger for their despair. She cursed the very ground, ensuring that anyone who dared to live in the house would suffer a fate worse than death, their terror feeding her eternal hunger. I have made a pact with her spirit. This house is a cage and a feeding trough for her spirit, which I call The Hunger. Jake slammed the diary shut. The house was a monument to a witch's final, vengeful curse. Margarita was the entity that had killed Marcus, Clara, and Sarah. Jake looked at the diary again, flipping to the final, chilling entry, the one that offered a sliver of impossible hope. December 24th, 1926 – Christmas Eve The rule is simple, and it is my curse: The Hunger can only be freed by the complete, willing sacrifice of a soul who has loved the house and its inhabitants. I cannot do it…… Jake knew what he had to do. He had to stop the Hunger. He found Eliza, still huddled by Sarah’s freshly dug grave, and gently brought her back inside. "It's Margarita," he whispered, his voice cracking. "She cursed the house. I know how to stop it." He explained the ritual, the need for a willing sacrifice. Eliza, broken and vacant, only stared at him. "I love you, Eliza," he said, tears finally streaming down his face. "And I loved them. I'm the only one left who can do this." He walked to the center of the living room, the place where the house felt coldest, and raised the axe high above his head. He was not afraid of death, only of failing. He brought the axe down, not on himself, but on the floor, splitting the ancient wood and revealing the dark, hungry earth beneath. The house SCREAMED. Margarita’s presence surged, a black, suffocating cloud of pure, ancient malice. It did not rush at Jake; it simply WAS him. It tore into his mind, not with pain, but with the absolute, crushing VOID of eternal despair. His eyes rolled back, two white, empty spheres. He dropped the axe, his body convulsing as the Hunger consumed his soul, leaving him a desiccated, hollow shell. His skin turned a sickly, ash-gray, and he crumpled to the floor, a forgotten garment. Eliza watched it all. She was the last one. The house was silent now, the storm outside receding. Margarita had won. She walked slowly to the center of the room, stepping over Jake's body. She looked at the hole in the floor, at the dark earth, and then up at the ceiling. She didn't feel fear; she felt a profound, crushing NIHILISM. She had lost everyone. "I love you all," she whispered, a final, broken prayer to her dead friends. She closed her eyes, and the Hunger, now fully sated and immensely powerful, turned its attention to her. It did not attack. It simply SETTLED inside her. Eliza’s eyes snapped open, but they were no longer hers. They were cold, black pools reflecting the dark earth. A slow, terrifying smile stretched her lips—a smile of pure, ancient satisfaction. She did not fall. She stood perfectly still, a new, silent warden of the house. The curse was complete. The house had its final, living vessel. NO ONE GETS OUT ALIVE. The End.🙂🙂

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