Three friends break into an abandoned villa on Lipowa Street and uncover a hidden iron box beneath the boards, but the house seems to notice them first.
The villa on Lipowa Street had been rotting in plain sight for years, a dark shell behind a sagging fence and a tangle of weeds. People passed it every day and looked away. Ola never did. Neither did Igor or Majka.
On a heavy August afternoon, Ola led the way through the broken gate as if she had every right to be there. "If you are coming to stare at it from the street, you might as well stay home," she muttered, already climbing the steps. Igor followed with a doubtful frown, and Majka came last, glancing back once at the empty road before slipping inside.
The house swallowed them at once. Dust hung in the stale air. The floorboards answered each step with a tired creak, and the rooms smelled of damp plaster, old wood, and something sharper, like rust. In the front room, among overturned chairs and shards of pale china, Igor noticed the edge of something hidden beneath a threadbare carpet. He knelt, lifted the fabric, and exposed a loose plank marked with a faded, hand-painted M.
Majka went pale. "We should leave that alone."
Ola was already pulling at the board. It gave way with a dry snap, revealing a shallow cavity lined with cobwebs. Inside sat a small iron box, heavier than it looked, its lock covered in strange symbols that seemed too deliberate to be decorative.
Then the house shuddered.
A hard, rhythmic thudding rolled up through the floorboards from somewhere below them, as if something beneath the villa had just woken and taken a first step in their direction. Igor stared at the others. "Did you hear that?"
Before anyone could answer, the box gave off a sudden green flash. A whisper seeped out of it, thin and breathless, too faint to make out, yet somehow meant for them alone. Ola reached toward the lock.
Behind them, on the stairs, came the unmistakable sound of footsteps.