Utah

The evening sun had almost disappeared behind the peaks of the rooftops. Yuta stood before the wrought-iron gates, clutching the strap of his backpack. Tall, with tousled ash-blond hair that fell into his eyes, he nervously adjusted it. A mixture of curiosity and belated regret swam in his blue eyes. A quiet but insistent voice inside him urged him to turn around.

“It’s too late to retreat,” he whispered to himself, pushing the gate open.

It gave way with a drawn-out, heart-rending creak that echoed across the deserted street. The mansion greeted him with deathly silence and the smell of damp earth. His friends' tales of a vampire living there had piqued his curiosity, and here he was.

Yuta climbed the cracked stone steps. The front door was ajar, a chill wafting through the dark crack. His heart skipped a beat.

"Bad idea, Yuta. A really bad idea," he thought, but his feet moved forward on their own.

Inside, the darkness was dim, broken by the slanting rays of sunset filtering through the dirty windows. The hall was vast, with high ceilings receding into the darkness. Old, sheet-covered furniture stood everywhere, like silent ghosts. The air smelled of dust, old books, and something else—subtle, spicy, and unsettling.

He walked slowly, the floorboards creaking pitifully under his feet, and every sound seemed deafening. His phone's flashlight picked out a cloudy mirror or a dusty painting from the darkness.

“It’s just old junk and no mon…” Yuta began quietly, trying to calm himself down, walking out into the center of what must have been a large living room.

He didn't have time to finish. Someone's icy hand landed on his shoulder from behind, and hot breath burned his neck. Yuta's whole body shuddered in surprise and he dropped his phone. It landed with a dull thud on the carpet, extinguishing the beam of light and plunging them into pitch darkness.

"Lost?" a soft, velvety voice, devoid of any warmth, rang out in my ear.