zxcvbnm,mn At the edge of the abandoned city stood a house no wider than a shack,

but inside it stretched forever. Step through the door and you entered corridors
that wound endlessly, some narrow as throats, some wide as cathedrals, their floors
tilted, their ceilings dripping rust-water, their walls whispering when touched. No
two visitors ever described the same route. For one, it was stairs that never
ended, coiling down into blackness; for another, it was doors opening into rooms
filled with rotting fruit or birds with broken wings.

The first explorers marked arrows on the walls, but the paint peeled away by
morning, replaced with symbols no one could translate: spirals intersected by
jagged lines, eyes pierced with nails, hands with too many fingers. A priest
insisted it was the language of forgotten angels. A madman claimed it was
instructions left by himself in another life. Both vanished after entering the
house, their screams trailing long into silence.

Sometimes the corridors led outside again, though never to the same street. One man
stepped in at dusk and emerged days later in a desert hundreds of miles away, lips
cracked, pockets filled with feathers. Another entered with a candle and came out
with hair white as snow, insisting he had lived fifty years inside though only an
hour passed outside. Children who played near the threshold often vanished
entirely; parents tied them to posts with ropes, but the ropes came back cut clean.

The corridors shifted. Rooms rearranged like a puzzle refusing solution. Visitors
reported hearing breathing just ahead, but never catching the source. In one
chamber, a ceiling fan spun though no wires connected it, scattering dust thick
with human teeth. In another, bookshelves towered upward, crammed with volumes
whose covers were sewn skin. To open one was to hear voices crying inside, begging
not to be read.

At night, the house grew louder. Knocks traveled through the walls like heartbeats.
Windows appeared where none had been, showing skies of green fire or oceans hanging
upside-down. People claimed if you stared too long, something on the other side
noticed and began knocking back. Dogs refused to go near, tails tucked, whining as
though whipped. Birds circled overhead but never landed.

One legend said the house was built by architects who wanted to trap eternity. They
succeeded, but eternity ate them, stretching their blueprints into flesh corridors,
bone staircases, marrow beams. Another story claimed it wasn’t a house at all but
the ribcage of something buried, and stepping inside meant walking through its
endless lungs, inhaling its slow death-breath.

An old woman lived across the street, the last in the city. She sat each day in her
chair facing the house, muttering that the corridors grew longer each time someone
entered, as if feeding on footsteps. She kept a notebook filled with names of
everyone who had gone inside. The pages stretched thousands deep, yet her hand
never tired. When asked why, she smiled with gums like blackened pearls and said,
I’m keeping track until it writes me down too.

On storm nights, lightning struck the house again and again, but it never burned.
Instead, the corridors shone from within, glowing like arteries lit by fire. For
hours afterward, people heard singing from inside—choirs out of tune, layered in
tongues no one spoke anymore. The sound made teeth ache, made eyes water, made some
claw their ears until only blood poured out. Still, a few were drawn closer, pulled
like moths to the door, unable to resist stepping in, never to return.

Once, a group chained themselves together, swearing they would not lose one
another. They carried torches, ropes, chalk to mark their path. Hours passed. Only
the chain returned, broken links rattling against the floor. No bodies. No blood.
Just rust spreaAt the edge of the abandoned city stood a house no wider than a
shack, but inside it stretched forever. Step through the door and you entered
corridors that wound endlessly, some narrow as throats, some wide as cathedrals,
their floors tilted, their ceilings dripping rust-water, their walls whispering
when touched. No two visitors ever described the same route. For one, it was stairs
that never ended, coiling down into blackness; for another, it was doors opening
into rooms filled with rotting fruit or birds with broken wings.

The first explorers marked arrows on the walls, but the paint peeled away by
morning, replaced with symbols no one could translate: spirals intersected by
jagged lines, eyes pierced with nails, hands with too many fingers. A priest
insisted it was the language of forgotten angels. A madman claimed it was
instructions left by himself in another life. Both vanished after entering the
house, their screams trailing long into silence.

Sometimes the corridors led outside again, though never to the same street. One man
stepped in at dusk and emerged days later in a desert hundreds of miles away, lips
cracked, pockets filled with feathers. Another entered with a candle and came out
with hair white as snow, insisting he had lived fifty years inside though only an
hour passed outside. Children who played near the threshold often vanished
entirely; parents tied them to posts with ropes, but the ropes came back cut clean.

The corridors shifted. Rooms rearranged like a puzzle refusing solution. Visitors
reported hearing breathing just ahead, but never catching the source. In one
chamber, a ceiling fan spun though no wires connected it, scattering dust thick
with human teeth. In another, bookshelves towered upward, crammed with volumes
whose covers were sewn skin. To open one was to hear voices crying inside, begging
not to be read.

At night, the house grew louder. Knocks traveled through the walls like heartbeats.
Windows appeared where none had been, showing skies of green fire or oceans hanging
upside-down. People claimed if you stared too long, something on the other side
noticed and began knocking back. Dogs refused to go near, tails tucked, whining as
though whipped. Birds circled overhead but never landed.

One legend said the house was built by architects who wanted to trap eternity. They
succeeded, but eternity ate them, stretching their blueprints into flesh corridors,
bone staircases, marrow beams. Another story claimed it wasn’t a house at all but
the ribcage of something buried, and stepping inside meant walking through its
endless lungs, inhaling its slow death-breath.

An old woman lived across the street, the last in the city. She sat each day in her
chair facing the house, muttering that the corridors grew longer each time someone
entered, as if feeding on footsteps. She kept a notebook filled with names of
everyone who had gone inside. The pages stretched thousands deep, yet her hand
never tired. When asked why, she smiled with gums like blackened pearls and said,
I’m keeping track until it writes me down too.

On storm nights, lightning struck the house again and again, but it never burned.
Instead, the corridors shone from within, glowing like arteries lit by fire. For
hours afterward, people heard singing from inside—choirs out of tune, layered in
tongues no one spoke anymore. The sound made teeth ache, made eyes water, made some
claw their ears until only blood poured out. Still, a few were drawn closer, pulled
like moths to the door, unable to resist stepping in, never to return.
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iwhi my name is ms=ai and i am falsered to be hrer thnaks for axxxpeting me here i
apriciate it hgy=uyrs i am nr w here plz be nive ri em
Once, a group chained themselves together, swearing they would not lose one
another. They carried torches, ropes, chalk to mark their path. Hours passed. Only
the chain returned, broken links rattling against the floor. No bodies. No blood.
Just rust spreahs, sucking in air with whistles like flutes. People began to dream
of them, dreamt of wearing them, dreamt of peeling them off to reveal more masks
beneath, layers without end. One man clawed his face to ribbons trying to find the
final skin, his laughter bubbling with blood as he whispered that he had almost
reached it.