The Witch's Wager

Story by Melisa S. Kennedy - On Ghost Hill, where the full moon hung like an old lantern, Victoria Rider’s historic mansion loomed with its gothic sprawl of turrets and gargoyles, and its large windows glowing like jack-o’-lanterns.

The eccentric billionaire witch, with her long black and silver hair, and dress woven with raven feathers, stood beside her third husband, David, a handsome man with a smile sharper than a cursed blade. It was Halloween, and thirteen strangers had been lured to their haunted estate with a promise: survive the night, and walk away with a million dollars each.

The guests arrived at dusk, a motley crew clutching Victoria’s cryptic invitations. There was Lila, a skeptical journalist; Marcus, a washed-up magician; Dr. Patel, a paranormal researcher; and ten others—each with secrets heavier than the fog curling around Ghost Hill.

Victoria greeted them in a velvet gown that shimmered like liquid night, her eyes glinting with mischief.

“Welcome,” she purred, “to a night you’ll never forget—if you survive it.”

The rules were simple: stay inside until dawn, no exceptions. The doors slammed shut at midnight, sealed by an unseen force.

David, pouring wine that smelled faintly of brimstone, chuckled. “The house has a mind of its own,” he said. No one laughed.

The first hour was deceptively festive. A chandelier dripped wax onto a banquet table laden with food that seemed to writhe when glanced at sideways. Then the lights flickered, and the air grew cold.

Lila, scribbling notes, heard whispers from the walls—her own name, hissed in a voice not her own. Marcus, attempting a card trick, yelped as his deck burst into flames. Dr. Patel’s EMF reader screamed, though no one else saw the needle spike.

By 1 a.m., the house turned predator.

A guest named Clara, a nervous accountant, vanished into a hallway that hadn’t existed moments before. Her scream echoed, then cut off. The others found her shoes, neatly placed, beside a mirror that reflected no one.

Victoria, sipping from a goblet, shrugged. “The house likes to play.”

Panic crept in. A burly ex-cop named Ray tried to break a window, but the glass reformed like liquid. Shadows moved in corners, taking shapes—clawed hands, eyeless faces.

A guest named Sophie, a tarot reader, drew a card from her deck: Death, every time, no matter how she shuffled. “It’s not a game,” she whispered. “It’s a hex.”

At 2 a.m., the first murder struck. Greg, a cocky tech bro, was found in the library, his throat slit, a strange hieroglyph carved into the floor.

No weapon, no killer—just a chilling laugh that seemed to come from the walls.

The group splintered, some accusing each other, others begging Victoria to end it. She only smiled. “The house chooses,” she said. David, lounging with a cigar, added, “And it’s not done.”

Ghosts emerged by 3 a.m. A spectral woman in white drifted through the ballroom, her touch freezing Marcus’s arm until it blackened.

Dr. Patel, muttering about electromagnetic fields, was dragged into a closet by unseen hands, his screams muffled as the door vanished.

The remaining guests—now nine—barricaded themselves in the dining room, but the walls pulsed, whispering curses in languages none recognized.

Lila, ever the skeptic, demanded answers. “What’s the point of this, Victoria?” The witch’s eyes gleamed. “Power,” she said. “The house feeds on fear, and I feed on it too.”

David smirked, his shadow unnaturally long, flickering with horns. Was he human, or something else?

By 4 a.m., betrayal bloomed. Sophie, desperate, tried to sacrifice another guest, timid librarian Ethan, to appease the house. She chanted from a book she found in the attic, but the spell backfired, and her own blood painted the floor. Ethan, trembling, clutched a candelabra, now the group’s de facto leader.

At 5 a.m., only five remained: Lila, Marcus, Ethan, Ray, and a quiet chef named Tara. The house grew vicious. Staircases looped endlessly. Doors opened to voids.

A ghost-child giggled, leading Ray to a chandelier that fell, crushing him. Marcus, half-mad, swore he saw Victoria’s face in every mirror, her laughter echoing. Dawn was close, but the house wasn’t finished. Tara, slicing an apple, turned on Marcus, her knife now a ritual blade. “The house promised me more,” she hissed, her eyes glowing. Ethan tackled her, and in the struggle, the knife found her heart. Three left.

As the first light of dawn crept through a window, the house groaned, its traps dissolving. Lila, Ethan, and Marcus stumbled outside, gasping, the million dollars forgotten. Victoria and David stood on the porch, untouched, smiling.

“You fed it well,” Victoria said. “Come back next year.”

The survivors fled, never looking back and never thought about asking for the money. Ghost Hill swallowed their screams, and the mansion waited, hungry for the next Halloween.

The End.