Griefhouse

Griefhouse

Marla didn’t know why the house called her. On a rainy evening, it appeared at the edge of the road, dark and half-hidden by mist and overgrown hedges. She had passed it countless times, always curious, always turning away. That day, something in her chest tightened — a pull she could not resist.

The front door swung open before she reached it. No lock, no key, only a heavy sigh of air that seemed almost alive. Inside, the hall stretched unnaturally, lined with peeling wallpaper and faded portraits that watched her. Her own reflection appeared in a tarnished mirror, pale and uncertain, a ghost of herself she barely recognized.

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I. The First Room

The first room smelled of damp paper and smoke. Dust motes floated in the weak light from a cracked chandelier. A chair faced the fireplace, unlit. On the mantle, a photograph of a child she once knew — her younger sister, gone ten years ago — stared back.

As Marla reached for the photo, the room shifted. The chair turned slowly toward her, its shadow stretching unnaturally across the floor. A whisper rose from the walls:

“You left me.”

Her throat closed. She fell to her knees. The room responded, walls contracting, ceilings lowering, pressing against the hollow in her chest. She remembered the argument with her sister the morning she left town, the words that had struck like knives, the silence that followed. The house forced her to see.

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II. Hallways of Memory

Marla moved forward, drawn to a long hallway lined with doors. Each opened to a moment she had buried: a ruined birthday party, a friend crying in a corner she had ignored, a parent lying in a hospital bed while she slept elsewhere. The house did not threaten; it revealed, merciless and exact.

She tried to shut the doors, but they swung open on their own. The hallway stretched endlessly. Floorboards creaked underfoot, echoing like a heartbeat — steady, relentless.

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III. The Garden Room

One door led to a garden she had never seen. It was autumn, the leaves blackened, falling like ash. A bench held letters she had written but never sent, each one carrying a fragment of herself she had buried.

A soft voice whispered from the shadows: “You cannot leave what you hide.”

The letters swirled into the air like leaves in a storm. Her grief spilled into the room, dense as fog. Marla cried until her tears ran dry, until every word she had refused to speak found its echo.

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IV. The Heart of the House

At last, she reached the central chamber: impossibly high, cathedral-like. Shadows clung to the corners, shifting with subtle life. In the center stood a mirror, black and liquid, reflecting not her face but every regret, mistake, and lost chance.

“You’ve carried this long enough,” the house seemed to say. “Face it, or become part of it.”

Marla stepped closer, her reflection fracturing into shards. Each replayed a memory she could not change: harsh words, missed embraces, moments of cowardice. She wanted to turn away, to flee, but understood. The house could not be escaped. It had to be endured.

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V. The Release

Hours passed — or days; time lost meaning. Marla knelt before the mirror, trembling, and whispered every sorrow aloud. The room shivered in response. The shards pulsed, then merged into a single softened image.

The ceiling rose. The walls relaxed. The air lightened, as if the house exhaled after holding its breath for centuries.

Marla rose, the weight on her chest lifted, not gone but manageable. The house had not punished her. It had offered a reckoning. To leave without understanding grief would have left her broken; to face it, terrifying though it was, offered freedom.

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VI. Leaving

The front door opened easily. Outside, the night was quiet. Mist hovered over the hedges; a distant streetlamp flickered weakly. Marla walked slowly down the road, feeling whole in a way she hadn’t in years.

She glanced back. The house stood dark and patient, windows like black eyes, waiting. Some griefs can only be carried into a house. Some griefs can only be faced within walls that will not let go.

And Griefhouse waits, always.

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