Chapter 1: Introduction
The gravel crunched underfoot as we climbed out of Susan’s beat-up sedan, our arms groaning under the weight of duffel bags stuffed with clothes and snacks. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the overgrown path leading to the old Victorian house, its peeling white paint and sagging porch making it look like something straight out of a haunted house movie.
“Are you *sure* this place is safe?” I asked, squinting up at the wobbly second-story balcony.
Susan adjusted her glasses—still half-tinted purple from that frat party last semester—and grinned. “Relax, Jess. It’s just an old house. Probably haunted.
Probably full of asbestos. Probably the kind of place where the shower leaks and the basement smells like wet socks.”
I rolled my eyes, but my fingers tightened around the duffel straps. “That’s not helping.”
She nudged me with her shoulder. “Come on, nerd. What’s the worst that could happen? We get bored, eat too many ramen noodles, and somehow survive eight weeks without Wi-Fi.”
I huffed, already dragging my bag up the creaking steps. “Yeah, real funny.
If I die of tetanus or spontaneous combustion, I’m haunting you.”
Susan kicked the door open with a dramatic flourish—*creak*—and the stale scent of old books and mothballs rushed out to greet us. I wrinkled my nose. “Ugh. Smells like Grandma’s attic.”
“Or,” Susan said, stepping inside and flicking on the dim overhead light, “a really weird air freshener. Maybe someone died here and left a bouquet of regret.”
The foyer was narrow, the hardwood floors groaning under our steps. A grand staircase spiraled upward, its banister dusted with something that looked suspiciously like cobwebs.
On either side, doorways led to dimly lit rooms packed with mismatched furniture draped in faded sheets. The place felt like it had been frozen in the 1920s—and not in a stylish retro way.
I slid my sneakers off and wiggled my bare toes against the cool wood. “Okay, first order of business—find the Wi-Fi password and the nearest pizza delivery.”
Susan dropped her bag next to a crooked side table that listed slightly to the left. “In that order?”
“Absolutely. Starvation before surrender.”
She laughed, pushing her shoulder-length blonde hair behind her ear.
It brushed against her neck, slightly tangled from the drive. “Fine. But I get to pick the first movie. Something with explosions. Or at least a good car chase.”
I smirked. “You hate explosions.”
“Yeah, but I *love* the sight of things going up in flames,” she winked, then tossed her bag onto the threadbare couch in the living room. Dust puffed up like a startled ghost. She coughed, waving a hand. “Christ. Who owns this place? A hoarder or a vampire?”
I set my bag down carefully, eyeing a suspiciously stained armchair that looked like it might swallow me whole. “Vampire, probably.
Or a retired taxidermist,” I said, poking a stack of yellowed newspapers on the coffee table. “Maybe both. Either way, no Wi-Fi means no research, no deadlines, and most importantly—no one to judge me binge-watching *Nip/Tuck* at three in the morning.”
Susan snorted, already unzipping her bag and pulling out a crumpled hoodie. “Speak for yourself. I plan to be productive. Read some Nietzsche. Journal my feelings. Maybe write the great American novel.”
I gave her a slow blink. “You? Nietzsche?
Jesus, Susan, you once called *Moby Dick* a “silly whale hunt.” You once cried during *Gravity*. You don’t even know what Nietzsche is.”
She tossed a rolled-up sock at my head. “I *do* now! Next week. After I finish compiling my tax evasion spreadsheet on imaginary lemonade stands.”
I dodged the sock, laughing, but my attention snagged on something half-hidden behind the stack of newspapers—a small, pale-blue door, nearly invisible because it blended into the wallpaper. It had no handle, just a smooth, slightly curved surface with a tiny brass keyhole. I blinked.
“Susan.”
She looked up from her bag, still shoving in clothes.
Susan and I both went exploring the house on our own , drawn by separate curiosities—me because I’d always been the type to open every cabinet in a museum gift shop, her because she was incapable of walking past a locked door without wanting to know what was inside.
Walking through the basement I found a weird door. A door that was most definitely a door meant to stay closed.
I reached out, hesitating just before touching the wood. My fingers hovered, light as a spider’s thread, then tapped it with my nail.
A hollow *thunk* echoed back and the door opened a crack wide.
Just enough for a sliver of dust-moted air to spill free. There was no keyhole. No lock. No visible hinge.
Jessica hesitated, her sneakered foot poised on the threshold. The scent that wafted out wasn’t must or mildew—it was something softer, sweeter. Like baby powder mixed with fresh roses left too long in a vase.
She entered the room and turned on the light. The door closing behind her.
Jessica was standing in a small bedroom painted the softest shade of pink, every inch of the walls picked out in pattern of trailing roses. A full-length mirror stood beside a narrow bed draped with lace. A wardrobe stood open—its shelves bursting with silky pink garments, stockings, and heels stacked on spider-leg shoe racks. A dressing table was covered with bottles of perfume, brushes, makeup and a jewelry chest overflowing with delicate chains and pearls.
It was Jessica's personal nightmare. She wasn't goth, but pink was never her color, and everything here screamed girly girl. Still, she couldn't stop staring, because it looked like the inside of someone’s dream. Not hers. Never hers. Her fingers trembled as she reached for a satin robe hanging from a hook—soft as a whisper, deep rose with tiny silver embroidery along the collar. Jessica had never owned anything so delicate. Her palms prickled.
On the walls hung paintings of submissive women dressed in pink
, their eyes downcast, their postures perfect—kneeling, hands behind backs, collars glinting. Their expressions were serene, almost reverent.
Jessica swallowed.
She had never wanted to be submissive and found the paintings tasteless.
She had always been the one in control—organizing study groups, debating philosophy late into the night, making decisions for both of them when Susan couldn’t decide between pizza or Thai.
She had spikes in her hair.
She wore flannel shirts.
She was a feminist.
And yet.
Her fingers traced the edge of a lace-trimmed panty set—so girly it would make Marilyn Monroe blush. She should have hated it. She *did* hate it. But her heart was pounding, and her skin felt too tight, like something inside her was stretching, softening, *unfurling* in a way that didn’t make sense.
Jessica exhaled sharply through her nose, pressing her thighs together. *What the hell is wrong with me?*
Then she noticed the shoes.
Rows of pink heels on the lowest shelf—some delicate, some strappy, some with heels so high they looked like they belonged to a circus acrobat. She crouched down, eyeing a pair of nude-pink stilettos with a single black ribbon tied around the ankle strap. Perfectly polished.
At this point she had to leave. She got up and walked to the door. On the way out she could swear she heard a whisper saying "Welcome to your new life" but she shrugged it off.
Susan was up in the attic , where she’d found another hidden door—this one painted black as midnight, edged with iron studs. It had a heavy iron ring for a handle and a keyhole the size of a coin purse. The moment she touched it, the door swung inward without resistance, revealing a space that smelled of leather and tanned hide and something metallic underneath that made her nose tingle.
Even the air felt different—thick, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks. She stepped inside, her sneakers silent on a rug made of dark fur that looked like wolf pelt. The door shut behind her.
The walls were lined with black leather panels, and paintings of women dominating other women and men. Along one wall, a full-length mirror framed in wrought iron stood tall and imposing. Beside it, an armoire gaped open, revealing leather and latex dresses, leather and latex jump-suits, corsets of black leather, leather harnesses, and boots with heels so tall and pointed they looked like daggers made for walking. On the floor sat a long wooden table scattered with whips, floggers, and a strange device that looked suspiciously like a modernized birch rod.
The center of the room was dominated by a large X-frame made of black iron, its surface polished to a mirror sheen.
Susan was terrified, she wasn't prude, but beds was something she wasn't comfortable with. She didn't like the idea of dominance and submission. She didn't like the idea of pain or bondage. She wasn't a fan of most kink, didn’t really get it. Her idea of foreplay was a shared pint of ice cream and a movie marathon. She liked comfort. She liked predictability.
She walked towards the door and left. On the way out she thought she heard a whisper saying "Welcome to your new life" but she shrugged it off.
Instead she found Jessica in the living room, standing frozen in the doorway, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and distant, like she’d just seen a ghost—or maybe a revelation.
Susan paused at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Jessica jumped slightly, her fingers still clutching a pale-pink satin ribbon she’d been toying with. “What?”
“You’re holding that curtain tie like it’s going to save your life,” Susan said, nodding at the fragile fabric dangling from Jessica’s grip.
Jessica blinked down at it, then tucked it into her back pocket with an awkward shuffle. “Uh—no. Just… noticed something weird downstairs. Small room. Pink everything.”
Susan raised an eyebrow. "Pink everything? That’s specific.”
Jessica swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "Yeah. Like someone’s boudoir. Or a dollhouse. I don’t know. It just… felt off.”
Susan crossed her arms lower now, her fingers tracing the edge of her hoodie sleeve. “I also found a weird room in the attic.
All black. Leather everywhere. Like a dungeon or something.” Susan’s voice dropped to a deliberate murmur. She watched Jessica’s eyes flicker—once—something like recognition passing across her face before she looked away.
Jessica hugged herself, suddenly very aware of the satin ribbon still warm against her palm. “Okay, so the house is full of secret rooms. That’s… creepy.”
Susan stepped closer, voice dropping further. “Yep. Hopefully there aren't more, but I will try to avoid those two." Susan laughed. Jessica agreed.
"Yeah, me too."