I spent a terrifying night in a stone house in the mountains — wind howling through cracked shutters, ancient timbers groaning like ghosts. No cell signal. No power. Just candlelight flickering over moss-stained walls whispering secrets. Something scraped outside — claws? Branches? I didn’t dare look. Floorboards creaked on their own. Shadows moved wrong. Dawn couldn’t come fast enough. When light finally spilled through the grimy windows, I fled — heart still racing, sanity barely intact. The house still stands. Waiting. I’ll never go back. Some stones hold more than cold. They hold hunger. And they remember you.
