The old house sat at the end of a crooked lane. It’s weathered wood creaking with age, and a sense of forgotten secrets lingered in the air. The house is a maze of rooms, each filled with antique furniture, that you know would tell a story off only they could speak.

The house seemed well taken care of, the bookshelf clean of dust, the beds maid and the fridge stocked with food. But you know the house has been empty for years, not a sole has entered its doors sense the last family left in the dead, of night all this years ago.

you know that you need to go, your own cozy little cottage awaits you’re return. But this place, it hums with a quiet, eerie life, as if waiting for someone to return - or perhaps, to never leave.