It was the thirteenth night of the thirteenth month. In most calendars, that would be nonsense—but the town of Graveridge wasn’t like most places, and time didn’t always behave.
Amara knew this when she took the house-sitting job at the old Gallowmere estate. It paid well—too well for just feeding a cat that no one had seen in decades and keeping candles lit in rooms she wasn’t supposed to enter. But she was broke, and curious.
The house stood at the edge of the forest, half-swallowed by ivy, its windows dark like dead eyes. The Gallowmeres were long gone—either buried or vanished—but the townsfolk still crossed the street to avoid even looking at the estate.
On her third night, Amara found the hidden door in the pantry. It creaked open when she leaned against the shelf, revealing a narrow stone staircase spiraling into the dark.
There was a sign nailed beside the entrance, carved in weathered oak:
“Descend Not the 13 Steps. No Light May Follow.”
Of course, Amara brought a flashlight.
The first step was cold, the second colder. Dust fell like snow from the ceiling. She counted aloud to steady her nerves.
“One… two… three…”
On the seventh step, the flashlight flickered.
On the ninth, she heard whispers—soft, like someone breathing through water.
On the eleventh, the air grew thick, almost syrupy. Her limbs were heavy. The beam of her flashlight barely cut through the shadows.
“…Twelve… thirteen.”
The moment her foot hit the thirteenth step, the light died.
Silence pressed against her eardrums like deep ocean pressure. Amara turned to retreat—but the staircase behind her was gone. Not in shadow—gone. Stone walls now sealed the path behind her.
Then came the voices.
“Welcome back, Amara.”
The voice was hers.
A soft glow pulsed in the dark, revealing a mirror floating in the air. Her reflection blinked—then smiled. It reached out, but Amara did not move.
“You’ve taken my place. As I once took hers.”
Amara stepped back, heart hammering, but the darkness clung to her.
The mirror began to crack. From its shards poured wisps—ghostly shapes with hollow eyes. They whispered of bargains made and promises broken. Every 13th month, a soul was needed to keep the passage sealed.
Now it was her turn.
The air thrummed. Beneath her, a new staircase unfurled—13 more steps, each leading deeper. A door waited at the bottom, pulsing with violet light.
The mirror voice whispered once more:
“You can go deeper, or you can stay here and watch. But you can never go back.”
Amara didn’t scream. She only turned, and stepped down.
One…
Two…
Three…
To this day, the Gallowmere estate remains untouched.
Locals say you can still hear footsteps beneath the floorboards.
Always descending.
Never returning.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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