Chapter 6 The Mark Of The House

Donald sat in his dimly lit motel room, staring at the jagged scar on his forearm.

He didn't remember getting it.

The wound was old-healed but wrong, the skin pale and slightly raised, as if something beneath it was still alive.

As he ran his fingers over it, a sudden burning pain shot through his arm.

Then-whispers.

Faint, like voices calling from a distance.

He clenched his teeth. He needed answers.

But first, he needed help.

Desperate, Dona reached out to Dr. Calvin, a professor of folklore and paranormal studies.

When Donald explained his story, the professor was silent for a long time.

Then he said:

"You don't escape a place like that, Mr. Albert. You become a part of it."

Donald's stomach twisted.

Calvin continued, explaining that some haunted places weren't just locations they were entities. Living things.

And Donald?

He was now bonded to it.

If he didn't find a way to sever the connection, he would slowly become a part of the house, even from miles away.

Donald began noticing strange changes in himself.

Shadows moved in his peripheral vision, but when he turned, they vanished.

Every mirror reflected something slightly off-a smiling version of himself when he wasn't smiling.

He started waking up in different places, with no memory of how he got there.

And worst of all-he began hearing the house inside his head.

Come back, Donald.

It's time to come home.

Every day, the whispers grew stronger.

One night, Donald lost complete control.

He blacked out while driving, only to wake up standing in front of Black Hollow Road.

The house was back.

Waiting for him.

His hands moved on their own, reaching for the doorknob.

A force inside him was pulling him forward, commanding him to enter.

But he fought back.

With every ounce of strength, he turned away-but the house did not let him go easily.

His scar burned.

The whispers turned to screams.

And then-darkness.

---

Donald awoke in his motel room, gasping for breath.

Something was different.

He felt lighter.

When he checked his arm-the scar was gone.

Confused, he stood up, heart pounding. He looked around the room-everything seemed normal.

Had he broken free?

Then-he saw it.

In the mirror.

His reflection wasn't moving.

Instead, it smiled.

And whispered:

"The house never sleeps, Donald."

"And now, neither do you."

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