Ghost House in Shadow Village Part 6 - Drums in the Cellar

Drums in the Cellar                                                                                                                                 

The night in the village of shadows was heavier than ever. The house stood silent, yet it seemed to breathe, its wooden walls exhaling cold whispers. For the first time since they entered, silence ruled the corridors. But silence in this place was never safety—it was a warning.

Mariam woke suddenly, her heart pounding. She had heard it again: a faint thump, like distant drums, echoing from beneath the floor. She shook Ahmed, who had been dozing beside the window.

“Listen!” she hissed.

Ahmed frowned, but then his eyes widened. The sound was real—slow, steady beats coming from the basement. Thump… thump… thump… Like a heart buried alive beneath the wooden planks.

They gathered the others quickly. Some wanted to leave at once, but the front door refused to open no matter how hard they pulled. It was as if the house itself had sealed them inside.

With no other choice, they followed the sound down the stairs. Each step groaned like a scream. The deeper they went, the colder the air became. Their breath formed clouds, though no wind stirred.

The basement was vast and wrong, bigger than the house itself. Old furniture lay broken, cobwebs hung like curtains, and the shadows moved as if alive. At the far end stood a door of iron, blackened with age. The drumming came from behind it.

Ahmed touched the door; it trembled like flesh. Suddenly, the drumming stopped.

And then, a whisper.

Not from one voice, but many—hundreds of voices layered together, speaking in an ancient tongue. The words clawed into their minds, forcing images of blood, sacrifice, and a village that once worshipped something buried beneath the soil.

Mariam covered her ears, but it was useless. The whispers seeped through her skull. “It’s not just a house,” she gasped. “It’s a prison. Something is trapped here.”

The iron door rattled violently. Dust rained from the ceiling. A crack split the wall, revealing an eye—vast, lidless, staring at them with hunger older than centuries.

Screams erupted. One of their group, Youssef, rushed forward in panic and tried to shut the crack with his hands. But the shadows from the wall wrapped around him like snakes, dragging him inside. His cry echoed once, then silence.

The drumming returned—faster now, furious. Thump-thump-thump-thump.

They fled up the stairs, but the staircase stretched longer than before. Each step carried them deeper, not higher, as if the house twisted reality itself. The whispers grew louder, chanting, calling names that were not theirs yet somehow belonged to them.

At last they burst into the upper hall, gasping, broken. The windows were gone, replaced by mirrors. In every mirror, their reflections grinned back at them, even though they were pale with terror.

Mariam dared to touch the glass. Her reflection’s hand met hers—then gripped it, pulling. She screamed as her arm was dragged into the mirror. Ahmed grabbed her waist and pulled with all his strength until she tore free, bleeding.

The reflection licked its lips.

They realized then: the house was feeding on them, one by one. And it would never let them leave until it was full.

In the silence that followed, the drumming slowed again. A voice, clearer this time, spoke from the walls:

      “Six entered. Only five remain. The feast has begun.”