They always arrive in the rain, Mud on their shoes, Breath sharp and unsteady with Eyes full of stubborn belief that they chose to come here or sometimes because they are curious or because of 'research' purposes but They never know.
I see them before they see me.Before the flash of lightning outlines my frame against the tree line.Before the road behind them disappears.Before the fear settles in their bones.
There are five this time.
Five is structure.Four walls to contain. One to hold the key.They do not understand what that means yet and They think they are alive.They think they walked here with their choice.
The living do not enter this place.
I am not safety.I am not shelter.I am Transit ; the line between what ended and what comes next.
Long ago, I guided priests and mourners, kings and executioners.Beliefs changed. Rituals changed.Death did not.
They come here full of unfinished things.Regrets that rot.Fears that cling.Desires that refuse to die with them.
Someone must carry them onward.
The Five will learn.
One will read memory.One will silence terror.One will seal the binding.One will track the direction.One will open the path.
Psychopomps, though the word mean nothing to them yet.
They will struggle.They will break.They will scream.
But they will also obey, Because night is coming, and night is when the ones who cannot rest begin to move.You will hear them soon, Dragging.Scraping.Clawing across the floorboards.Voices shaped like deception, pleading, like grief, like teeth scraping bone.
Help me.
The Five must answer because there is no release for those who refuse.
This is the beginning.Their binding.Their duty.
This is the house you call haunted but its not ,
It is inhabited.
And now, you are among its occupants.