Moving into the Victorian estate on Willow Creek was supposed to be the culmination of years of sacrifice. For Mark and Sarah, the creaky floorboards, soaring ceilings, and stained-glass windows were charming quirks of a bygone era, not red flags. They spent their first afternoon toasting each other with champagne amidst a sea of cardboard boxes, dreaming of the dinner parties and holidays they would host in this grand, historic space. Even Luna, their usually skittish tabby, seemed to enjoy the vast sun-drenched hallways of the second floor.
By the third night, however, the charm began to sour. The house was unnervingly quiet at night, save for the occasional moan of the timber. While the couple unpacked the last of the kitchen crates, they noticed Luna sitting perfectly still in the narrow hallway. She wasn’t chasing shadows or begging for her usual evening treat; she was frozen in a statuesque pose, her emerald eyes locked onto the heavy oak door that led down to the basement. It was a look of intense, predatory focus that neither of them had ever seen before.