The Price House Investigation

They were committed—determined to make this investigation go viral. ParabNormal was their channel, run by YouTube influencers Tom Morris and Lydia Calder, who had recently rebranded themselves as paranormal investigators for clicks, likes, and sponsors. Tagging along as their photographer, technical advisor, and self-proclaimed voice of reason was Mara Cohen, a second-year paranormal studies student with something to prove.

Mara had read about the Price House in one of her classes. It was a case study steeped in blood and whispers: murder, mystery, and decades of unanswered questions. The house had remained unsold for years, its reputation so toxic that the city had designated it a heritage site rather than risk bulldozing history. It would stand—empty, rotting, and heartless—forever frozen in the echoes of its past.

For Mara, this was more than content; this was her shot at a final project that could turn heads. Tom and Lydia were in it for the spectacle. Every other paranormal crew had come up empty or walked away with vague, inconclusive results. But not ParabNormal. They would still use the standard arsenal—spirit boxes, EVP recorders, BooBears, and even an Estes session—but Tom wanted more. He wanted to cross the line. His plan? To voluntarily offer himself up for possession, believing that a willing invitation would give him control and a unique chance to “help” the spirit move on. He was certain he could pull back whenever he wanted.

The city, weary of the house but oddly protective of its legend, had granted them a single night of access. Now, standing before it, they realized just how enormous their playground—and their trap—really was.

The Price House was an ominous, dilapidated Queen Anne relic, its spindly towers and sagging gables silhouetted against a bruised evening sky. It hadn’t seen a good day since McKinley was president.

“I don’t like this,” Lydia said, her voice low, almost swallowed by the stillness. “It smells… smells like old secrets.”

Tom snorted. “You say that about every place that doesn’t have Wi-Fi.”

“No, she’s right,” Mara murmured, scanning the shadowed hall. “There’s something… wrong here.”

“Oh, perfect. We’ve been here five minutes and it’s already a ghost story,” Tom said, a mocking lilt in his voice.

Mara ignored him, setting up her night vision camera. It wasn’t just what she’d read in her textbooks. This place had presence. Even if no spirit lingered, the house itself seemed alive—watching.

“Look at the walls, Tom,” Lydia said. “The paint’s not peeling—it’s blistering. Like it’s trying to breathe.”

Tom rolled his eyes but stepped closer. He reached out to press one of the bubbling blisters. As his fingertips hovered an inch away, the blister flattened with an audible exhale, as though recoiling from his touch. He reached for another, and it too deflated, sighing like the release of a held breath.

Mara froze, mid-setup. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Tom asked.

“Don’t,” Lydia snapped. “Don’t say ‘hear what.’”

“It was a knock,” Mara said, her tone sharpening. “Or—no. More like… a heartbeat.”

“Okay, that’s it. You two are trying to freak me out. Not gonna work,” Tom said, though his voice lacked conviction.

“Then why is your hand shaking?” Lydia asked.

“…It’s not,” Tom muttered, but his hand trembled anyway.

Mara’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t move. There’s something behind you.”

Tom let out a low howl as he leapt a foot off the ground. He hadn’t heeded Mara’s warning—he’d been walking backward, trying to prove that he wasn’t afraid and that his hands weren’t shaking. He turned just in time to bump squarely into an old floor lamp draped in a dusty sheet.

Mara and Lydia both doubled over laughing. Tom’s startled yelp would have been funny enough, but that low, almost guttural howl sealed it.

“Real smooth,” Lydia snorted, tears forming in her eyes.

A little ticked off at being mocked, Tom ignored them and busied himself with the gear. After nearly an hour of running cords, mounting cameras, and setting up sensors, the equipment was finally ready for a test run.

“Alright, cameras rolling. Mara, how’s the audio?” Tom asked.

“Clean. No static yet,” Mara replied.

“Yet?” Lydia echoed. “Don’t say yet.”

“Lydia,” Tom groaned, rolling his eyes. “The point of this is to find something. Static is good. Voices are better. Screams are—”

“Not funny,” Mara cut in sharply.

“Unless they’re Tom’s screams,” Lydia added, dropping her voice into a ridiculous mock-impression. “Awwwwwhhh!”

Mara burst out laughing, joining Lydia in their second round of hysterics.

Tom shook his head. “Fine. No screams. Just whispers from the beyond, right?”

Mara was adjusting levels on the EVP receiver when Lydia’s laughter died. Her face went pale. She pointed to the staircase with a trembling hand.

“D… d… do you see that? On the stairs?”

“Where?” Mara asked, yanking off her headphones.

“Second step from the top—there!” Lydia’s voice was sharp, frantic.

“…That’s just dust,” Tom scoffed.

“Dust doesn’t move uphill, Tom,” Mara said, her voice tight.

“It’s an old house. Drafts, bugs, whatever,” Tom muttered, but his tone faltered—because he saw it too.

“No. It’s looking at us,” Lydia whispered.

“Lydia—what are you talking about?” Mara demanded.

“The second step. Look closer,” Lydia said, her eyes locked on it.

“I’m not seeing—” Tom began, but then he froze.

No one moved. No one screamed. They didn’t even breathe.

“Okay. What the hell was that?” Tom broke the silence.

“You saw it?” Mara said.

“Something just… slid back under the wood,” Tom said.

“…Under? Like the step swallowed it?” Lydia asked, wide-eyed.

“No. No, no, no.” Mara shook her head. “Houses don’t do that.”

“This one does,” Tom muttered.

“We should leave,” Lydia whispered, still pointing toward the stairs.

“We’re not leaving,” Tom insisted.

“Then we don’t split up. Not here,” Mara said, her voice firm with a tone of authority that silenced them both.

Tom and Lydia were the faces of ParabNormal, but this was Mara’s project. She wasn’t going to let a pair of influencer wannabes botch her shot at credibility. This investigation could make or break all their careers. To snap the group back into focus, she queued the ParabNormal intro video and the recorded backstory of the Price House.

The moment the theme music played, Tom and Lydia grabbed their lapel mics and slipped into their well-practiced personas. Before either could deliver their first line for the live stream, Mara rapped her knuckles on the equipment table.

“The motion sensor just tripped,” she said.

“Which one?” Tom asked.

“Hallway. Near the base of the stairs.”

“…The stairs where it looked at us? No. Nope.” Lydia shook her head.

“Calm down. It’s probably a rat,” Tom muttered, grabbing the GoPro to bring the staircase into the stream. He tiptoed toward the stairs, angling the camera for the live audience.

“Rats don’t set off IR sensors, Tom,” Mara said, eyes glued to her monitor.

Tom lowered his voice, whispering into his lapel mic as he gave viewers a quick recap of the unsettling moment they’d had earlier.

“It’s moving. Look at the red light,” Mara said sharply.

“It’s—wait. Did it just… stop?” Tom asked.

“Something’s blocking the camera feed,” Mara said.

“What do you mean ‘blocking?’” Lydia asked, inching closer.

“As in standing in front of the lens.”

Tom backed away from the stairs and returned to the equipment table, holding the GoPro steady on the staircase. The live GoPro feed was crystal clear, but the monitor showed only darkness.

“There’s nothing on the monitor. Just… black,” Tom whispered, unnerved.

“Like something covered it?” Lydia asked.

“No. Like something’s… breathing on it. See? It’s fogging,” Mara said.

“That’s—no, that’s not possible,” Tom muttered, pointing at the GoPro screen. “Look. Nothing there.”

“Tom… it’s looking at you,” Lydia whispered, her voice shaking.

“What?” Tom asked, turning. “How do you kn—”

“The fog—it’s forming letters,” Mara cut in, tapping him on the shoulder.

“…What does it say?” Tom asked, his eyes locked on the monitor as he turned the GoPro toward it.

The fog shifted, strokes slowly appearing as though drawn by an invisible finger.

Hi Tom.

Tom was still frozen, staring at the monitor. His mind seemed to have jammed like a tape reel, looping back to those words: Hi Tom. Lydia noticed his blank expression and, not one to waste an opportunity, leaned into her lapel mic and began narrating for the viewers—half dramatic retelling of what had just happened, half “look at me, I’m still cute.”

Tom kept the GoPro trained on the monitor from Camera 2, oblivious to her performance. Lydia crossed into Camera 2’s view to get both angles streaming at once, her voice rising as she tried to reclaim the audience’s attention.

Then Mara froze, one hand raised. “Did… did anyone else hear that?”

Tom didn’t look up. “Hear what?” he asked, his voice cautious, distracted.

Lydia spun toward him, irritation spiking. “Don’t you dare say ‘hear what’ again!”

“Shh!” Mara snapped, leaning closer to the laptop. “There—listen.”

All the microphones fed into an equalizer on the laptop, each running through its own channel. If something was there, it would show. Tom bent down to watch the waveforms while listening through the speakers.

“That’s just feedback,” Tom muttered.

“No,” Mara said. “It’s words.”

Lydia’s voice cracked. “What’s it saying?”

Mara tilted her head, almost whispering. “…‘Stay.’”

“Oh, great. Polite ghosts,” Tom scoffed.

“Shut up, Tom!” Lydia snapped—just as a slam echoed from upstairs. It wasn’t a subtle creak or a random pop; it sounded like someone had dropped the entire works of Shakespeare—hardcover—onto a desk. The kind of slam that rattled your teeth.

“That was not feedback,” Mara said, her voice low but certain.

Tom swallowed. “Okay. Okay, that was… something.”

“We’re leaving. We’re done.” Lydia’s voice trembled.

“No, no—wait! We’ve got this. It wants us to stay? Fine. We stay.”

“Tom—” Mara began.

“No, listen! This is what people click for. This is it,” Tom insisted, cutting her off.

From upstairs came a new sound. A heavy, dragging scrape. Like someone pulling a bag of wet sand—or a body—across the floor. It was above them, slow and deliberate, the old boards creaking with each shift. Then the scraping started moving toward the stairwell.

“Oh God,” Lydia whispered. “Oh God, oh God, it’s coming down.”

Mara’s fingers flew to the camera controls, switching the feed to night vision. “Kill the lights. NOW.”

“Wait, no—” Tom began.

Before any of them could move, the lights flickered violently. One bulb in the next room exploded with a sharp pop, and the rest went dark, leaving only the eerie glow of the IR camera.

“…I didn’t touch anything,” Mara said.

Lydia’s voice dropped into something hollow and detached. Her body trembled… but her feet were no longer on the floor. She hovered two inches above the warped boards, hair swaying as though in a faint breeze.

“It’s here,” she said.

Lydia went rigid, her body stiff as a mannequin. Her eyes rolled back, nothing but white showing.

“Lydia… you’re floating,” Mara stuttered, her voice quivering.

“No, she’s not—she’s… it’s a trick of the—” Tom started, but the words died in his throat.

“Tom, LOOK,” Mara snapped.

And Tom looked. He couldn’t deny what he saw: Lydia suspended in midair, stiff as a board. On Camera 2’s monitor, it was the same—except there was something else. A shadow. Not a figure or a shape, just a blackness lurking behind her like a hole cut out of reality.

Then his eyes flicked to the live stream. Likes and hearts poured in, climbing by the second. The chat scrolled like wildfire:

Incredible!
Cool!
FAKE—lol!
SFX bullshit.
REPENT. YOU’RE SINNERS. THIS IS THE DEVIL!

Tom’s pulse spiked. This was it. This was going viral.

“I can feel… hands. Holding me up,” Lydia gasped, her voice thin and breathless.

“That’s—okay, okay, this is insane. Lydia, come down!” Tom barked, as though authority alone could save them—or boost the likes.

“She’s not doing it, Tom. Something’s lifting her,” Mara said, her voice sharp.

“It’s cold,” Lydia whimpered. “It’s inside my skin.”

“Stop it, stop saying that. We’re live—” Tom insisted, glancing at the comments.

“I don’t care if we’re live! Get her down!” Mara shouted.

Lydia jerked violently, her body writhing like a rag doll being shaken by a child. Then—WHAM. She was hurled across the room, slamming into the wall with a sickening thud.

Lydia screamed and crumpled to the floor.

“Jesus! Lydia!” Tom yelled.

The hearts and likes spiked, exploding across the screen. Comments flooded in faster than they could read:

Cool as hell!!!
Holy shit—again!!!
What IS this???

“Cut the stream—cut it now!” Mara yelled.

“No, no—this is it! This is the proof—”

Before he could finish, the GoPro ripped itself out of his hands and smashed against the opposite wall.

“What the hell—?!” Tom yelled.

Lydia struggled to sit up, wincing from the pain. “It’s whispering… inside my head,” she cried.

“We have to end this. Tom, HELP ME!” Mara demanded. She didn’t care if this killed her project—none of this was worth their lives.

“Wait… wait. It’s not angry. It’s… curious,” Tom said, his voice low.

“Are you out of your mind?!” Mara snapped.

Tom pointed at the live stream numbers climbing, trying to sway her, but before he could argue further, a dust-covered wingback chair screeched across the floor, stopping just inches from his legs.

“…Or maybe I’m wrong,” Tom whispered, his bravado cracked.

“It wants you, Tom,” Lydia said weakly, pointing at him with trembling fingers.

“What?” Mara asked.

“It’s calling for Tom,” Lydia said, her voice flat, her eyes wide and bulging like they might pop.

The live stream had gone black when the GoPro was thrown, but the audio still fed out. Hearts and likes kept clicking in, and the chat scrolled madly:

Voice only is creepier.
Spooky AF.

Lydia managed to roll onto her stomach and began pulling herself slowly toward Tom and the wingback chair. Her voice—half growl, half whisper—was not her own when she said,
“Tom… it’s waiting for you.”

Mara adjusted the remaining camera feeds, her face pale as she watched Lydia crawl, almost slither, closer to Tom.
“Don’t listen to her. She’s not herself,” Mara warned.

But Tom had already turned toward the chair. He knew, somehow, that it wanted him to sit. He lowered himself onto the faded upholstery, gripping the armrests as though bracing for a storm.
He whispered into his lapel mic, his voice low for the audience: this was it. He was going to invite the entity to possess him.

Clenching every muscle, he looked up at Mara.
“What if she’s right?” he asked.

Mara’s hands froze over the equipment. As much as she wanted this investigation to succeed, this was going too far.
“No. We’re shutting this down. Right now,” she said sharply.

“You don’t get it. This—this is what we came for. Proof. Real proof,” Tom insisted, his eyes blazing with defiance.

Lydia dragged herself closer to the chair. Her voice, still not quite hers, trembled:
“It wants you to say yes.”

“Say yes? Tom, are you insane?!” Mara snapped.

The whites of Tom’s eyes flushed with red, though his expression didn’t flinch, like he felt nothing.
“If I offer… maybe it’ll stop. Maybe it’ll let her go.”

“Or maybe it’ll kill you!” Mara shot back.

She glanced at the live stream. Likes and hearts clicked furiously, the comments a blur:

Shit’s getting real!
Pray for them.
What a sham… Wow.
But can he spider walk?

“Real sickos,” Mara muttered. But deep down, she knew the stream would serve as both witness and record—no matter what happened next.

“It doesn’t want to kill him. It wants to wear him,” Lydia hissed, now nearly at Tom’s feet.

“…Wear me?” Tom asked.

“Like a suit,” Lydia whispered.

“We’re leaving. Get your stuff—” Mara started, but a deafening crash from Camera 1 cut her off. The tripod toppled, cords snapping as the camera clattered across the floor.

“Wait! Just… wait,” Tom said, locking eyes with Mara.

“Don’t you dare—”

Tom shouted into the darkness.
“What do you want from me?!”

The EVP recorder screamed with static, a violent hiss that jolted all three of them. And through that static came a single, gravelly word:

“Yes.”

Lydia whimpered, her voice barely her own.
“It’s asking… it’s asking you.”

“Don’t answer it, Tom. I swear—” Mara’s voice trembled.

“…What happens if I say yes?” Tom whispered.

Lydia’s eyes cleared for a moment. Her voice, chillingly calm and eerily hers, cut through the room.
“It’ll show you,” she said, smiling.

Mara frantically swung the remaining cameras and the IR rig toward Tom and the wingback chair. Whatever was happening, it needed to be recorded.
“Tom, don’t. Whatever you think is going to happen—you’re wrong,” she pleaded. But deep down, she knew he wouldn’t stop.

“I can handle this,” Tom said, his voice low and determined.

Lydia, still crumpled near the wingback, propped herself up on shaking elbows. A twisted smile spread across her face as she glared at Mara.
“It’s already inside the room,” she scoffed, before letting out a childlike, eerie chuckle that froze Mara’s blood.

“What does that even—” Mara began, but her words were drowned by a sudden gust of freezing air. Loose papers, cables, and dust whirled across the floor.

Tom’s reddened eyes began to weep, dark streaks trailing from the corners like tears of blood.
“Did you feel that?” he asked, breath catching in the icy draft.

“Yes,” Mara said, “which is why we’re leaving.”

Lydia let out another high-pitched chuckle and rolled her eyes back, her voice bellowing unnaturally.
“It doesn’t want you to leave.”

“I’m not afraid of you!” Tom shouted, glancing around the room as if to find the thing that spoke through her.

The EVP recorder screeched to life, static hissing like fire, and beneath it, a heavy, rattling breath pulsed.

“That’s not the building,” Mara whispered. “That’s something else.”

Still grinning, Lydia tilted her head, whispering, “Say yes.”

Tom froze. He tried to straighten in the chair, but the moment his hands pressed down, the upholstered armrests rippled beneath his palms—liquid, like tar—pulling at his forearms.
“And if I do?” he asked, panic cracking through his tone.

Lydia’s teeth gnashed in a grotesque grin. “It’ll show you everything,” she said gutturally, biting her nails like a child waiting for candy.

“Tom, this is not proof. This is suicide!” Mara shouted.

Before Tom could reply, the chair answered for him. It spun violently, dragging itself across the floor until it faced Mara directly, knocking Lydia aside as it moved.

The live stream went wild. Viewer numbers skyrocketed—already more than ParabNormal had ever seen. Likes and hearts erupted on the screen, but the thumbs-down count climbed too, the chat filled with a mix of trolls, self-proclaimed experts, and even spambots.

“Did you see that?!” Mara whispered.

“…Yes,” Tom said—but not to her. His eyes were fixed on the chair.

Every light bulb in the house exploded one by one, popping like gunfire. Lydia’s face contorted into a grin of pure, unhinged glee.

“TOM!” Mara screamed.

And then—silence.

Lydia’s laugh warped into a shriek of joy. “It’s in him,” she said.

“What?” Mara flinched.

Lydia pressed a finger to her lips, shushing. “…Listen.”

Tom’s head flung back. His chest heaved, rising and falling in harsh, rattling breaths. Veins bulged and pulsed under his skin, crawling across his neck like living worms. He exhaled once, long and low. When he inhaled again, the sound came in two voices—his own, and another, darker, grinding voice beneath it.

“…I see you,” it said.

Lydia rose to her feet, but not by her own will. Her hideous grin widened as her body convulsed, arms flailing like a metalhead thrashing to music only she could hear. She moaned and laughed in a warped, unnatural rhythm.

The chat stream exploded:
 —She always was a camera hog.
 —Tom should go back to grifting ED pills. His acting is shit.
 —Worst episode of Big Brother ever.

The video feed cut to black. The live stream remained online, but only the audio carried through—clear and unmistakable. Yet it wasn’t from the room. It wasn’t from any microphone.

It was a conversation Mara recognized. A conversation that had never been recorded.

 “You don’t know what you’re getting into,” Professor Smythe said.
 “I think I do,” Mara insisted.
 “The Price House has destroyed many careers trying to investigate it. None have been successful.”
 “But I have a different approach. And a couple of internet attention-seekers who’ll jump at anything for fame.”
 “Still, Price House is dangerous, and your future depends on your final project.”
 “I know. And I’ll get it done, no matter what,” Mara said adamantly.
 “Meaning?” Professor Smythe asked.

The screen flickered again, then the live cameras came back—focused directly on Tom, still writhing in the chair.

“Tom… can you hear me?” Mara asked.

A slow, eerie reply came: “…I hear everything.” The voice split in two distinct tones.

“Oh, it likes you,” Lydia said, twitching and jerking like a broken marionette. She turned and winked at Mara.

“Shut up, Lydia! Tom, fight it!” Mara barked.

The arms of the chair released Tom, but only because he wasn’t resisting anymore.

“Why fight? This… feels good,” Tom said, his dual voice sending shivers through the room.

“That’s not you talking,” Mara shot back.

The screen flickered black again. The live stream stayed up—but now, playing in grainy resolution, was a YouTube video of Lydia’s kitchen.

Lydia froze, her erratic dance slowing as her head tilted like a dog tuning in to a sound.

 “I can’t believe you’re going to do this,” Paula said, her tone sharp.
 “I’ve got to. One last time and then I can drop him for good,” Lydia replied.
 “Are you sure it’s worth it?”
 “Positive. This haunt will break me out. I’ll build my own channel and finally ditch that media pig.”
 “How can you be so sure?”
 “Mara guaranteed me this investigation would go big. All I had to do was inflate Tom’s ego—just enough for him to think offering himself up for possession was his idea.”
 “Whose idea was it?”
 “Well, mine… but Mara thought it was gold if I could convince him.”

The screen went black again. The feed returned, now squarely on Tom—still in the chair, but his head slowly tilting to one side as his expression hardened.

The chat stream erupted, torn between intrigue and outrage. Many viewers were now convinced this was all a con, just another of Tom’s infamous grifts.

Tom’s voice, now deep as if a tuba filled with water had learned to speak, rumbled:
“Maybe I was never me.”

Lydia resumed her eerie dance, chuckling.
“Let it show you,” she whispered.

Mara was done with games. Her jaw tightened, rage rising.
“No. Tom, look at me—LOOK at me!”

The wingback chair shifted, scraping the floor. Lydia pirouetted, jerking like a marionette. Then a metallic scrape echoed from across the room—the IR camera twisting on its own, centering directly on Mara.

“…What the hell?” Mara shrieked.

The chair slammed its back legs down like a beast stamping its feet.
“It wants you to see,” Tom said.

“Ohhh, this is the fun part,” Lydia sang out.

“Lydia, stop!” Mara barked. But Lydia’s movements only grew more frantic.

A sharp, grinding metallic sound rang out—the fallen tripod began bending, twisting into a grotesque shape, metal shrieking as it warped.

“Do you want to see, Mara?” Tom asked, his two voices now harmonizing like a choir of nightmare tones.

“Tom, don’t—”

“…Say yes,” Tom intoned.

Lydia clapped her hands, giggling. “Yes, yes, yes…”

“Tom, please. This isn’t proof, this is possession!” Mara cried. She flinched violently as her long hair was suddenly brushed aside by unseen fingers.

“Don’t touch me!” she screamed.

Tom tilted his head, his voice dropping to a soft, tender growl.
“It likes you too,” he said.

Lydia swayed in place, whispering with eerie delight.
“Oh, it really likes her.”

The live feed went dark once again.

The chat stream stayed on screen, but a new audio file suddenly began to play:

 “Yeah, if anyone cares, this is Tom Morris. I’m leaving this just in case things don’t work out as planned. I really am going to give myself up for possession. If it works, well, you’ll never hear this message. If it doesn’t, and things go wrong, then this is my last will and testament.
 I am in sound mind, but yes—I’m desperate. If I don’t get things turned around, everything I thought I owned will be taken. Yes. It’s that bad. All my real assets will be divvied up to creditors, but there is the issue of all copyrighted holdings I have. These will still need to be managed and may show more return yet. I am the copyright holder for ParabNormal, and I will not relinquish rights to Lydia Calder. I know she is sabotaging things to go out on her own. Only contracted royalty returns will be paid as earned by Lydia. All my personal items will be given to my sister to handle at her own discretion.
 So, if you are hearing this, things turned out bad. Alive, maybe. Dead, probably. If I’m still alive, I am mentally deficient in some way—or even in a coma. If that’s the case, this will be my final Will and Testament.
 There’s not really much more to say here other than, Lydia—go to hell. Anyone else, see ya.
 —Tom.”

The live feed camera blinked back on. The chat was divided: some believed Tom, others called it a cheap publicity stunt.

“Tom, talk to me. Not it. Me,” Mara urged.

Tom smiled, his expression hollow, and spoke in that unnerving dual voice:
“There is no ‘me’ anymore.”

Lydia dropped to the floor, writhing as if in pain, and let out a sob that melted into laughter.
“Oh, this is beautiful.”

“Lydia, shut up! Tom, listen—you can fight this!” Mara snapped.

Tom tilted his head back and grinned wider.
“Why would I fight? This feels… infinite.”

“That’s not you. That’s it, lying,” Mara said sharply.

Tom raised a single arm, pointing toward the monitor.
“Maybe I prefer the lie.”

The IR camera jolted, shaking violently like someone was pounding on it. Mara flinched, voice rising:
“What do you want from us?!”

The EVP recorder screeched with static, and beneath the hiss came a single, low voice:
“One stays.”

Lydia’s body jerked upward, dangling like a marionette. She cackled,
“Ooooh, I wonder which one?”

“Tom—don’t listen!” Mara begged.

Tom’s smile widened.
“Maybe I’ve already chosen.”

The walls groaned. Paint and wallpaper blistered and heaved like breathing skin. Upstairs, the stairwell gaped wider, as if the house itself was unhinging its jaw to swallow the world.

“It’s hungry,” Lydia said with a twisted chuckle.

“Hungry for what?!” Mara demanded.

Tom rose from the chair—but not by his own power. His feet dangled as he lifted, pointing a single finger at her.
“For you,” he said softly.

The wingback chair scraped across the floor and turned to face Mara. She was shoved aside by an unseen force, pushed away from the media table like she’d been swatted by invisible hands.

“Tom, stop this!” Mara screamed.

Tom’s laugh, a chilling duet of two voices, filled the room.
“I’m not stopping it. I’m… helping.”

“He said yes,” Lydia whispered, giggling like a delighted child.

The smart screen cut to black.

Professor Smythe turned to face the class, and changed the presentation on his  laptop hooked into the display.

“That,” he said, his voice steady, “as some of you may know, is the end of the ParabNormal live feed recording of the investigation into the Price House. What follows is the compiled footage and information we were able to retrieve. You’ll have to play your own judge and jury as to whether these events confirm real paranormal activity.

“Mara was one of my students, four years ago. Ambitious, determined—she believed she could capture undeniable evidence for her final project. What you may or may not know is that the Price House was demolished shortly after this investigation.”

He paused, glancing at the class.

“The Price House has a sordid history. There are stories of satanic rituals and sacrifices, but confirmed evidence of such was lacking. The true horror lies with Sebastian Price himself. He is considered one of America’s most vile serial killers, though he was never caught or tried. It’s estimated he killed over fifty young women, and several young men. All were believed to have been assaulted before their deaths.”

A voice from the class broke the silence. “Why did the live stream end there?” Mike asked.

“To be honest, no one knows why it cut off at that point,” Smythe said.

“Is it true then?” Martha asked.

“Is what true, Martha?”

“That Mara, Lydia, and Tom were all found… eviscerated. Right where the feed ended?”

“It’s true they were found dead,” Smythe said gravely. “But the details were never fully made public.”

“Many believe Sebastian Price killed them,” Martha added softly.

“Many may believe that,” Smythe replied, “but even through this footage—showing what may be genuine paranormal activity—there is no evidence the presence was Sebastian Price. And with the house demolished, I don’t think we’ll ever know.”

The smart screen flickered. No one was casting to it, but it came alive anyway, filled with the frozen live chat from that night.

The camera’s perspective shifted. Lydia lay twisted on the floor, her body bent backward like a broken hardcover book. Mara was sprawled over the media table, arms limp. The feed turned toward the wingback chair—where Tom sat smiling.

His voice—two tones fused into one—rumbled through the room:

“Are you sure, Professor? Want to test that theory?”

The screen went black.