Like a memory of the phrase

Thunder cracks as your taxi splashes up the long drive to the House on Haunted Hill. The mansion looms black against the storm-cloud sky: a sprawl of turrets, broken windows, and an iron gate that seems to sigh as it closes behind you. You were invited—no, challenged—by the host to spend the night. The prize is money; the rumour is something far worse.

A hulking butler opens the door and ushers you into a cavernous foyer where a half-dozen other strangers stand under a tarnished chandelier. At the far end of the hall, the host—an eccentric, smiling figure—raises a hand. “Ten thousand dollars to anyone who survives till dawn,” he says. A sudden gust slams the front door shut. The lights flicker and then go out, plunging the room into an uneasy hush. A faint scraping sound comes from the servants’ corridor to your right; to your left, a stairway spirals into shadow. Somewhere upstairs, a woman sobs.

You push through the small knot of guests and climb the main staircase. The carpeted steps hush your footfalls, but the wood beneath protests with a long, low creak that seems to echo all the way up the hall. The sobbing grows clearer—closer—each step.

At the landing, the corridor opens into a dim, narrow passage lined with doors. A single lantern guttering on a sconce throws wavering light across faded wallpaper patterned with roses. On the floor by the fourth door, a woman sits curled against the wall, knees drawn up, hair unbound and clinging to her face. Her nightdress is torn at the hem; her shoulders shake with a raw, hiccupping sob. In one hand, she twists a small brass locket; the other is clasped over her mouth as if to stifle sound.

She does not notice you at first. When you clear your throat softly, she startles, dropping the locket. It clicks open on the floor; inside, a faded portrait of a young man. Her eyes are red and wide. “Please,” she whispers, voice thin as tissue. “Do not let them find me again. They hide in the walls. They—” A fresh shudder wracks her body, and she presses both palms to her temples.

A closed door to your left leaks a sliver of warmer light beneath its frame; the door to your right is ajar, and a draft of cold, stale air escapes from its dark, making the candle beside it gutter.