The oppressive heat of July 1982 bore down on the small town of Brisby, Iowa, where two young friends were about to tempt fate in the most horrifying way. For years, the dilapidated Blackwood Manor sat decrepit on the outskirts, a looming presence that parents warned their children never to approach.

Tales were whispered of three kids who ventured inside over six decades ago, never to be seen again. Their disappearances had calcified into local lore, fueling the sinister reputation of the crumbling edifice.

Fourteen-year-old best friends Marvin Lott and the narrator should have heeded the ominous stories, but the thrill of defying such taboos on the last day of summer freedom proved too tantalizing. As dusk fell, they made their way through the overgrown grounds, the manor's shadow engulfing them like a vile mist.

Every rotting timber and shattered window seemed to dare them onward into the beckoning darkness within. The boys' first hesitant steps across the threshold unleashed a malevolent force that had lain dormant for generations.

An invisible malice slithered forth, eager to ensnare new victims in its gruesome web. As they ascended the grand staircase, floorboards groaned in protest, as if giving voice to the anguished souls who had fallen prey to the manor's terrifying secrets.

Marvin's nervous laughter echoed hollowly, drowned out by the thunderous pounding of their hearts. In the master bedroom, the air hung stale and thick with dread.

A tattered doll, strands of matted hair still clinging to its skull, seemed to watch them with vacant eyes. The narrator's blood turned to ice in his veins as the realization dawned - this was where the unspeakable horrors had occurred all those years ago.

Marvin's curiosity proved his undoing as he pried open a decrepit armoire. .

. and vanished without a sound into the reeking depths.

The narrator's anguished screams reverberated through the cavernous manor as he clawed frantically at the armoire's unyielding panels. But the only response was a low, rumbling laughter that curdled his blood and froze him in his tracks.

From the shadows, a hunched, twisted figure emerged, its mouth a rictus grin of serrated fangs. In that endless moment of heart-stopping terror, the narrator finally understood the truth behind the chilling tales.

Blackwood Manor was no mere derelict ruin, but a timeless vessel for an ancient, ravenous evil. A soulless abomination that fed on the lives of the young, trapping their spirits for eternity in an endless cycle of torment.

As the grotesque entity advanced, the narrator saw the anguished faces of the manor's countless victims contorting within its viscous form, their pleas for mercy silenced by the void. With a primordial roar, the abomination reared up, its gaping maw unhinged and ready to consume the narrator's very essence.

In that final, panicked heartbeat, the narrator turned to flee, only to find the way barred by a legion of shambling forms - the reanimated husks of the manor's victims, their empty eyes burning with hatred for the living. .