This is My House

Beth and Max, beaming newlyweds, haul boxes into their fresh start—a cozy house promising forever. Laughter echoes off bare walls. But night falls like a blade, slicing through the bliss. Doors slam shut on Beth, trapping her in a dim room, shadows whispering from the corners. No key. No escape. Just her pounding heart and an invisible grip that won't let go. Max stumbles in the kitchen, feet skidding across tiles yanked by phantom fingers. He claws at the floor, yelling her name, but the force drags him toward the abyss under the sink. Whatever this is, it hungers. It escalates—plates shatter without touch, whispers turn to snarls in the dark. Piece by jagged piece, the veil rips. Beth hides a scar deeper than skin: a crash years back, twisted metal and screams she buried. The haunt won't rest. It claws at her secrets, demanding confession. Lights flicker like dying eyes, forcing the truth into the light. But shadows lie. Is the ghost real, or is Beth's guilt wearing a mask? Max stares at her, trust fracturing. The house breathes, waiting to devour them both.