The Haunted Haven felt different at night—darker, heavier, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Ethan Ward stood in the main hall, flashlight beam slicing through the gloom, the brass key from the manor room clutched tight in his other hand. Beside him, Sophie Bennett bounced on her heels, her excitement barely contained despite the late hour. The radio’s latest command—“The theater demands an audience. Step onto the stage, Ethan”—hung in the air like a dare, and he wasn’t sure if he was more annoyed or terrified.

“So,” Sophie said, her voice cutting the silence, “we’re doing this? Like, right now?” She adjusted her backpack straps, flashlight swinging wildly as she gestured. “Because I’m down, but I gotta say, that radio’s got a real flair for drama.”

Ethan snorted, though his grip on the key tightened. “Yeah, it’s a regular Broadway star. Probably wants me to sing for my supper.” He swept the light across the hall, searching for anything that screamed theater. The manor door loomed to his left, still and silent, but nothing else stood out—just the same fake skeletons and creaky props. “Any idea where this stage is?”

Sophie shrugged, peering into the shadows. “Maybe it’s hidden, like the last one? Your parents were into this spooky scavenger hunt vibe, right?” She stepped toward a narrow corridor branching off the hall. “Let’s check this way. Worst case, we trip over a ghost and call it a win.”

“Optimist,” Ethan muttered, but he followed her. The corridor was tighter than the main path, its walls lined with faded posters—clowns with peeling smiles, a ringmaster promising Thrills Beyond Imagination. The air grew colder, thicker, and Ethan’s flashlight flickered, the beam stuttering like a dying pulse. He tapped it against his palm, cursing under his breath.

Sophie stopped ahead, her light landing on a double door at the corridor’s end. It was painted black, chipped letters spelling out Theater in a jagged scrawl. “Jackpot,” she whispered, grinning back at him. “Told you.”

Ethan joined her, unease coiling in his gut. The doors looked wrong—too solid, too clean compared to the Haven’s decay, like they’d been waiting for him. He hesitated, then pressed his hand to the wood. It was cold, unnaturally so, and a faint hum vibrated through it—like the key in his pocket, but deeper, angrier. “Here goes nothing,” he said, and pushed.

The doors swung open with a groan, revealing a cavernous room that shouldn’t have fit inside the ghost house. Rows of rotting velvet seats stretched into the dark, their cushions torn and spilling stuffing like guts. A stage loomed at the far end, its crimson curtain frayed but intact, swaying slightly despite the still air. Ethan’s flashlight barely reached it, the shadows swallowing the light before it could touch the back wall.

“Whoa,” Sophie breathed, stepping inside. “This is… intense. Your parents built this?”

“Doubt it,” Ethan said, his voice low. “Feels older than them. Older than this place.” He moved forward, boots thudding on the warped floorboards, and the key pulsed in his hand—sharp, insistent, like it knew where they were. “Radio said step onto the stage. Guess that’s me.”

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Sophie grabbed his arm, her grin fading. “Wait, you’re sure? Last time, that painting nearly ate you with its eyes. This feels… bigger.”

“Appreciate the concern,” Ethan said, managing a wry smile, “but I’m not letting some creepy boombox run my life. Stay back if you want.” He didn’t wait for her answer, climbing the rickety steps to the stage. The curtain rustled as he passed, and a low murmur filled the room—not the radio, but something else, a chorus of whispers too faint to catch.

He reached the stage’s center, planks creaking underfoot, and turned to face the seats. “Okay, theater,” he called, voice echoing. “I’m here. What’s the show?” The whispers stopped, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then the shadows moved.

Figures shimmered into view, filling the seats—dozens of them, vague and gray, like smoke caught in a draft. They weren’t people, not really; their edges blurred, faces blank, but Ethan felt their stares, heavy and unblinking. Sophie’s flashlight clattered to the floor behind him. “Ethan,” she hissed, “you seeing this?”

“Yeah,” he said, throat dry. “Audience is here. Guess I’m the main act.” He squared his shoulders, forcing bravado he didn’t feel. “Any requests? Bad comedy? Worse dancing?”

The shadows didn’t laugh. They leaned forward, a ripple passing through them, and the stage lights—rusted fixtures overhead—flickered on with a sickly buzz. Ethan squinted against the glare, heart pounding, as the curtain behind him jerked upward. A cracked mirror stood revealed, twice his height, its surface rippling like water. His reflection stared back—except it wasn’t him. The eyes were wrong, too dark, too hollow, and it grinned when he didn’t.

“Ethan!” Sophie shouted, her voice sharp with panic. “They’re moving!”

He spun around. The shadow audience was rising, drifting toward the stage, their forms stretching into tendrils of smoke. The key burned in his hand, hot now, and he stumbled back, nearly tripping over a loose board. “Great,” he muttered. “Dinner and a show, and I’m the meal.”

Sophie bolted up the steps, grabbing his arm. “We need to go—now!” But the shadows were faster, curling around the stage’s edge, blocking the stairs. Ethan’s mind raced, the mirror’s grin taunting him from the corner of his eye. Then he remembered the manor—how the task ended when he found the key.

“Hold on,” he said, yanking the brass key from his pocket. It glowed faintly, the eye symbol pulsing. “Maybe this is the encore.” He lunged for the mirror, slamming the key against its surface. The glass shuddered, a scream tearing through the room—not his, not Sophie’s, but something primal, furious. The shadows froze, then dissolved, sinking back into the seats like spilled ink.

The mirror cracked down the middle, and something fell from the break—a small, tarnished locket. Ethan caught it midair, the metal cool against his palm. The lights died, plunging them into darkness, and the whispers faded to nothing.

Ethan stood there, chest heaving, Sophie’s grip still tight on his arm. “You okay?” she asked, voice shaky but steadying.

“Yeah,” he lied, pocketing the locket. “You?”

“Totally fine,” she said, then laughed—a brittle, relieved sound. “Okay, not fine. What was that?”

“No clue.” Ethan glanced at the empty seats, then the shattered mirror. “But I’m guessing the Haven’s got more acts up its sleeve.” The radio crackled faintly from the office, a distant echo, and he knew he was right. Whatever this place wanted, it wasn’t done with him yet—not by a long shot.