A dining table was set for twelve, the food still steaming.
"Welcome home," a voice echoed from the walls. It sounded exactly like her own. La casa de las profundidades
Every painting in the hallway showed Aris at different stages of her life—even ones that hadn't happened yet. A dining table was set for twelve, the food still steaming
The front door slammed shut. The windows, once clear, filled with the crushing blackness of the abyss. The house wasn't a building; it was a lure. Every painting in the hallway showed Aris at
Rising from the silt was a Victorian-style manor, perfectly preserved. Its wood wasn't rotted; its windows weren't crushed by the immense pressure. It sat in the darkness like a ghost waiting for a guest.
Clocks ticked on the walls, all synced to the same second.
Aris looked at the portrait at the end of the hall. It had changed. It now showed her sitting at the head of the table, her eyes turned to salt, waiting for the next submersible to descend. If you'd like to continue this story, let me know: Should Aris try to or negotiate with the house?