The old house groaned as if alive. Jason stepped through the hallway, his hand still clutching the warm, glowing music box. Its faint lullaby echoed like a whisper. The wallpaper peeled in long curls, and the wooden floor creaked beneath each step. He felt like the house watched him, breathing quietly behind the walls.
He turned a corner and found a new door—one he hadn't seen before. It was tall, arched, and carved with strange patterns that looked like tangled vines, eyes, and clocks. Jason reached out and pushed it open.
The room beyond was filled with clocks.
Tall grandfather clocks lined the walls, ticking slowly in unison. Small pocket watches floated mid-air, spinning gently. A dusty chandelier hung from the ceiling, its crystals trembling like it feared something. At the center of the room stood a single table—and on it, a book bound in leather and silver vines.
Jason stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind him. All the clocks stopped ticking.
The silence rang in his ears.
He approached the table. The book opened by itself, its pages turning in a rush until it stopped on one that had his name—Jason Rivers Miller—written in glowing ink.
"What is this?" he whispered.
Suddenly, the clocks began ticking again—but backward.
The room darkened. The walls shimmered. Jason grabbed the book and stumbled back as a voice echoed through the air. Not a whisper. Not a scream. Just a voice, ancient and layered with many tones.
"He has returned. The path remembers."
Jason turned in a panic. Shadows crawled from the corners. The floor under his feet changed—from polished wood to cold stone. He was no longer in the same room. The clocks were gone.
Now, he stood in a narrow corridor of gray stone, lit by torches. The book in his hands was gone, replaced by an old lantern glowing softly. The music box was gone too.
His heart pounded. "Am I dreaming?"
A voice answered, not his own.
"This is not a dream, Jason. It's a memory."
Jason spun around. A man stood behind him, tall and wrapped in furs and moss, his hair long and tangled like vines. His eyes were bright green, glowing faintly in the dark.
"Who are you?" Jason demanded.
"My name is Elias," the man said. "The forest remembers me, and so will the house. I've walked these paths long before you. And so have you."
Jason blinked. "What do you mean? I've never—"
"You were here before, Jason. In another time. You lit the fire, you rang the bell, you opened the gate."
Jason's mind reeled. "That's impossible."
Elias placed a hand on the wall. It shimmered and changed again—this time revealing a painting. In it, Jason saw a boy who looked exactly like him, but dressed in old-fashioned clothes, standing beside a woman in a long cloak. Her eyes were the same green as Elias's.
"Your blood remembers," Elias said. "The house remembers."
Jason felt dizzy. "Why am I here?"
Elias turned, his expression suddenly grave. "Because the Shadow is waking. And you—once again—have been chosen."
Suddenly, a loud CRACK tore through the air. The stone wall split open, and a chilling wind burst through, carrying whispers.
"He's close," Elias warned. "You must leave this memory now. Or be trapped in it forever."
Jason didn't need more convincing. He ran.
As he raced through the tunnel, the walls seemed to chase him—twisting, reshaping, trying to confuse. He saw flashes of other times—people in cloaks running, a bell tower collapsing, a door burning with blue fire. He heard crying, screaming, and laughter that chilled him to his bones.
He burst through another door—this one wooden and scorched black.
And then—
He was back in the house.
The hallway returned. The ticking of clocks was gone. Jason stood panting, the music box warm in his pocket again.
But something was different.
At the end of the hall stood a new door. A silver door. Locked with seven glowing symbols.
Jason approached it, hand trembling. The symbols blinked softly, as if sensing him.
The voice of Elias echoed faintly:
"The first trial begins. Choose wisely, or be lost."
Jason looked back down the hallway. Nothing moved. No Elias. No clocks.
Just silence and secrets.
He turned to the silver door—and took his first step toward the unknown.