The night was thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth as a group of five teenagers gathered in the dimly lit living room of an old, creaking house. The storm outside raged on, the wind howling like a beast kept at bay by the thin walls of the old building. Flickering candles cast dancing shadows on the walls, making the room feel smaller, more intimate, as the teens huddled together in a circle on the floor.
It had been Jamie's idea to play the game — an old ritual she had read about online.
"It's just for fun," she said, her eyes glinting with excitement. "Besides, it'll make this sleepover a night to remember."
The game was simple, yet ominous. They were to sit in a circle, holding hands, and chant an ancient phrase three times. According to the rules, the game would summon the spirit of a young girl who had died tragically in the house many years ago. The legend claimed she would answer any question they asked, but they had to be careful — for if they angered her, she would take one of them with her.
The others laughed nervously, half believing it was all a joke, but the thrill of fear in the air was palpable. They dimmed the lights even further, and Jamie began the chant, her voice steady despite the goosebumps rising on her arms.
"Anara, Anara, come and play. Anara, Anara, show us the way. Anara, Anara, hear what we say."
The words hung in the air like a bitter chill. For a moment, nothing happened. The only sound was the rain pounding against the windows. Then, the candles flickered violently, nearly extinguishing themselves before settling into a weak, unsteady glow.
"Did you feel that?" whispered Sarah, her voice trembling. The others nodded, their bravado quickly evaporating. The air grew colder, and the room seemed to darken even more, as if the shadows were closing in on them.
Jamie took a deep breath and asked the first question, her voice wavering. "Anara, are you here?"
The candles flickered again, and a soft, almost imperceptible whisper filled the room. "Yes."
A shiver ran through the group, and they exchanged nervous glances. They had expected something — maybe a creak of the floorboards, or a gust of wind — but not an actual answer. But they pressed on, the thrill of fear pushing them forward.
"Anara, how did you die?" asked Mark, his voice barely above a whisper.
There was a long pause, the air growing so cold they could see their breath. Then, the same whisper filled the room, but this time, it was louder, clearer.
"They. . . killed. . . me."
The group froze, the reality of the situation settling in. Suddenly, it wasn't fun anymore. The atmosphere in the room had shifted, becoming heavy with a presence they couldn't see but could feel pressing down on them.
"What do you want from us?" Sophie asked, her voice shaking uncontrollably.
The response was immediate, the whisper now a growl, reverberating through the room.
"Revenge."
The candles went out, plunging the room into darkness. Panic erupted as the teenagers scrambled to find the lights, but the room felt disorienting, the walls seemingly shifting around them. Their breaths came in ragged gasps, the fear choking them.
In the pitch-black room, they heard it — a soft giggle, like that of a child, but twisted, malevolent. It echoed off the walls, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Stop the game!" Jamie shouted, her voice desperate. "We have to end it!"
But as they tried to break the circle, they found their hands glued together, as if an unseen force was holding them in place. The giggle grew louder, more sinister, and they felt a cold breath on the back of their necks, as if someone — or something — was right behind them.
The lights suddenly flickered back on, revealing an empty room. The teenagers looked around, bewildered. Had it all been a trick of the mind, a shared hallucination brought on by fear?
But then, they noticed something. Where there had been five of them, now there were only four.
"Where's Sarah?" Jamie whispered, her voice trembling.
They searched the house frantically, calling her name, but there was no sign of her. It was as if she had vanished into thin air. The only trace of her left behind was a small, old-fashioned locket lying on the floor in the spot where she had been sitting. The locket was cold to the touch, and inside was a faded photograph of a young girl, her eyes dark and lifeless.
The four remaining teenagers fled the house, never looking back. The game had been won, but the price had been far too high.
The locket remained on the floor of the old house, its clasp slowly closing by itself as the door to the room creaked shut. Outside, the storm continued to rage, as if the very heavens were trying to wash away the sins of the past — but some things could never be cleansed.
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