Wet footsteps sound beneath her as gravel clings to the heels of her feet. She tries to walk. Tries not to stumble. Her soggy hair dangles in front of her face. She can barely see. Barely lift her head.

Her skin itches, begging her to let it breathe. Grime gathers along her fingernails; she tries to scratch it off and comes away with only skin and blood.

But then she stops.

There it is. Right in front of her. The last house on the left. Tall, still, and bright blue with flickering lights inside.

She shouldn’t have gone into that house at all. She should have gone into the tall, rotting, dark house on the right, despite how repulsion hinted at her not to try.

They had given her a choice. A decision. That was how they liked to play the game.

They had sent her here on a dare. Her desperation for acceptance, their guide.

She knew now that when they played, they didn’t play nice.

That they had changed the appearance of their surroundings. Obscured the truth.

It had been either the haunting house with the falling door on the right or the one that stood tall and defiant on the left.

They had said only one would take her life.

She now knew they had spoken true. There had been no embellishment. No lies.

For she had been handled, gagged, and driven to the ocean to be thrown in.

The water had been unforgiving for her stupid mistake.

They had warned her, but today all she could do was cry.

For now, she was another ghost of Oceana Estate.