A door slammed upstairs, the sound sharp as a gunshot. They froze.

For the first thirty minutes, it was almost boring. They joked about urban legends and local lore, their voices echoing off the peeling wallpaper. But as the clock ticked past forty-five minutes, the atmosphere shifted.

At sixty minutes, Chloe noticed the shadows. They weren't just dark patches; they seemed to move independently of their flashlights, creeping along the floor like ink spilled in water. Sarah tried to leave, but the front door wouldn't budge. It wasn't locked; it felt held .

Sarah laughed, a nervous sound that died quickly in the heavy air. “And if we don’t?”

The three teens were never seen again, but locals swear that every Halloween, if you stand near the gates at midnight, you can hear a faint, desperate counting coming from the shadows of the house.

“Eighty-five minutes,” Mark’s voice was a ragged sob in the dark. “Almost there.”