The house on Clontarf Lane had been empty for
thirty years. Its windows were boarded, its
garden overgrown with thorned brambles. The
local council had marked it for demolition, but
the paperwork stalled. No one wanted to touch it.
Not after the last tenant died in the attic, her
body found curled in a corner, eyes open, mouth
sealed with a strip of cloth.
The estate agent, Seán O’Dwyer, was assigned the
listing. He had no interest in haunted houses,
but the commission was good. He arrived at
midday, the air thick with the scent of rain and
damp stone. The gate creaked as he pushed it
open. A crow took flight from the eaves, its
call sharp and sudden.
Inside, the air was colder than outside. Dust
motes swirled in the slanted light. Seán climbed
the stairs, his boots echoing. At the top, he
found a door locked with a rusted iron key. He
pried it open with a screwdriver. Beyond was a
room untouched by time. A bed, a desk, a mirror
that showed no reflection. On the wall, a symbol
carved into the wood: a circle with a spiral
inside.
He left, but the house followed him. That night,
he dreamed of a man in a military coat, standing
at the edge of a field, holding a lantern. The
man’s face was familiar—Seán’s grandfather, who
had died in 1923. The dream repeated. Each time,
the man pointed to the house.
Seán returned. This time, he brought a crowbar.
The door gave way easily. Inside, he found a
journal. It was written in a cipher, but the
dates matched the house’s history. 1916. 1923.
1947. The entries spoke of a pact made between
the house and the land, a binding of blood and
stone. The house was not abandoned—it was
waiting.
He met three others: a woman who claimed to be a
descendant of the original builders, a man who
had once worked for the council and vanished
after the house was deemed unsafe, and a boy who
had grown up nearby, hearing stories of the
house from his grandmother. They called
themselves the Keepers. They had been waiting
for someone to break the seal.
The house had a rule: no one could leave until
the pact was fulfilled. Seán had already broken
it by entering. The others had been there longer.
They had tried to escape. None had succeeded.
The next night, the house moved. Walls shifted.
Stairs led to nowhere. Seán found himself in a
room with a fire burning in the hearth. The man
from his dreams stood there, now in civilian
clothes. He said the house was alive, that it
fed on those who stayed too long. It had taken
many. It would take more.
Seán refused to stay. He fought the pull, the
whispers in the walls, the weight of the past
pressing down. He found the key again, but it
was no longer iron. It was bone. He used it to
unlock the front door. The moment he stepped
outside, the house screamed.
The Keepers remained. They had no choice. Seán
walked away, the city behind him. But the house
still stood. And somewhere, in the dark, the
pact waited.
