The house is not empty. It never was. Enter if you dare.
Built 1887 · Abandoned 1913 · Never truly left
Somewhere past the dead oak and the iron gate that never quite closes, a porch light flickers on its own. The windows breathe. The floorboards remember every footstep that ever crossed them — and a few that never did. We've kept the candles lit for you.
Rooms that remember you
Forty-seven candles burn in a room with no windows. Count them. Count them again. The number changes every time you look away.
A corridor lined with cracked mirrors. Your reflection arrives a half-second late — and sometimes it doesn't arrive at all.
Down thirteen steps, past the door that shouldn't be there. Something down here has been waiting a very long time for company.
The garden out back grows jack-o'-lanterns overnight. Every one of them is carved with a face you recognize.
Letters addressed to you, dated decades before you were born. The handwriting is unmistakably your own.
The bell rings at midnight. There is no rope. There is no bell. There is, however, always a midnight.
Until the doors creak open on October 31
Photographs recovered from the house
"The house does not haunt the living. The living haunt the house — briefly, loudly, and then not at all."— The Last Caretaker, 1913
Get the key before the others do