Four friends spend the night in an abandoned mill beyond the forest, where every creak sounds like a warning and a hidden door may be waiting to open.
Oliwia, Janek, Basia and Igor had been hunting for a proper adventure for weeks, and at last they picked the place everyone on the estate talked about in lowered voices: the old mill by the river, just beyond the dark edge of the forest. Ivy clung to its crumbling walls, broken windows stared into the night, and the whole building looked like it was holding its breath. Nobody went there after dark. Which was exactly why they did.
"I bet none of you lasts an hour in there," Igor said, lifting his torch as if he were already daring the darkness to fight back.
Basia snorted, though she stayed close enough to brush Oliwia's sleeve. "That sounds less brave and more like you're trying to convince yourself," she whispered, and her grin flickered when the wind slid through the trees behind them.
They found a ground-floor window with one jagged pane still hanging in the frame. Janek climbed in first, because he was the smallest, then the others followed carefully, one by one, keeping away from the glass. Inside, their torch beams skated over damp boards and walls streaked with mould. The air smelled of wet wood, dust, and something older. A floorboard groaned somewhere under them, though none of them had moved.
The mill was bigger on the inside than it had looked from the riverbank. Pale moonlight seeped through gaps in the boards and painted long silver stripes across the floor. Basia pointed toward a narrow staircase at the far end of the room.
"Up there," she breathed.
The steps complained under their shoes as they climbed. Every creak seemed to bounce back at them twice as loud. Upstairs, the dark pressed closer. Even their torchlight looked weak there, as if the shadows were swallowing it. Then they heard it: footsteps. Slow. Careful. Not theirs.
Oliwia froze. Under an old table, something flashed in the torchlight. She bent down and picked up a rusty key tied to a strip of worn leather. Before anyone could speak, a soft knock came from behind the large door at the far side of the room. The four friends turned at once. A cold draft slid across the floor, and the door began to move, inch by inch, with a long, shivering squeal.