I remember when I thought that accursed house was beautiful. I now know the horrifying truth.

Ever since I moved there a terrible change came over me. I became bitter and resentful towards the friends I once held close, and I found myself plotting the demise of others in my hateful solitude. As I worked out each gruesome possibility I began to notice a strange rumbling sound.

A bitterly cold night bloomed and my hate drew me to the home of a kindly shepherd. I killed him quickly and carried him to my home across the snowy moor. I dismembered him and laid him to rest under the floorboards.

The winter progressed and so did my unexplainable bloodlust. I was weekly adding corpses to the growing cemetery under my feet, and the strange rumbling subsided.

My murderous rages were rarely broken by brief moments of clarity. One such moment came when I was burying the headless corpse of an old gypsy. I couldn’t understand why I always placed the bodies in the same place under the floor, but there was always room for another. Not knowing how long this moment of free thought would last, I dug past the last corpse face down under the floor. My hand became wet and inexplicably started to burn. I quickly withdrew my hand and saw that some of the flesh had been badly burned, as if by acid. Alarmed, I grabbed the nearest corpse and turned it over. Every inch that had been in the liquid was being eaten away, digested by a house that possessed me and was forcing me to sustain it.

I screamed and ran as fast as I was able from the damned place. To this day I am haunted with images of what I found under the floorboards.