Evelyn ran for the door.
The handle wouldn't turn.
Windows sealed with invisible pressure.
Her phone flickered: NO SERVICE — NO MERCY.
The house inhaled slowly.
Walls bent inward.
Corners softened like flesh.
The hallway resembled ribs around a throat.
Whispers flooded the air.
"Stay."
"Pray."
"Kneel."
She dropped to her knees instinctively.
"God, please help me—"
Her prayer echoed back warped:
"Help me… help me… help me…"
Dark shapes slid from the floor, wrapping around her ankles.
Not ropes.
Sentences.
Her own words solidified.
Every desperate prayer hardened into shadow chains.
She realized the truth:
The house didn't hate faith.
It farmed it.
Fear-fed devotion.
And she had given it a feast.