The Haunting of Hill House, Reimagined

The house wasn't born bad. It was born hungry. We were seven, strangers invited by an eccentric millionaire to investigate the supernatural. The first night, the house whispered my name. Not in a spooky, ethereal way, but like a lover, intimate and possessive. It knew things about me, things I'd never told a soul. By the third day, it was no longer whispering. It was screaming. The walls would bleed, not blood, but a thick, black ichor that smelled of ozone and despair. We tried to leave, but the doors had vanished. The windows showed us not the outside world, but twisted versions of our own worst memories. It was feeding on our fear, growing stronger with every terrified scream. One by one, we were taken, not killed, but absorbed into the very fabric of the house, our consciousnesses trapped in an eternal loop of our deepest regrets. I am the last one. The house speaks to me now, with the voices of my friends. It promises me peace if I just give in. But I won't. I'm writing this on the last of my phone's battery, a message in a bottle cast into the digital sea. Don't come looking for us. Burn this place to the ground. The house is hungry. Don't let it feed again.