In the heart of the crumbling town of Vaelridge, where the fog rolls in heavy and the lamplight flickers like dying stars, children never sang lullabies. They whispered rhymes instead, each one darker than the last. The most infamous?

“Two go in, and one comes out,

Love turns whispers into shouts.

In the house of crimson lace,

One will vanish—leave no trace.”

No one knew where the rhyme had started. Maybe it was born in the gasps of girls who never came home, or maybe in the screams swallowed by the night. What everyone did know was this: on Holloway Street, past the rusted gates and thorn-choked fence, there stood a house draped in blood-colored curtains, windows always half-open like sighing mouths.

They called it The Velvet House.

It didn’t exist on maps. It didn’t need to. Everyone who needed it could feel it.

Rhea was seventeen, and love had ruined her. He was lean and pretty, with sharp teeth behind a cigarette smile, and he touched her like she was a thing meant to burn. Zane. That was his name. He smelled like trouble, talked like velvet, and kissed like sin.

And one summer night, drunk off moonlight and bad decisions, he asked,

“Wanna see if the rhyme’s real?”

Two go in.

The house opened for them.

Inside, The Velvet House pulsed like a living thing. Its walls bled warmth, red and lush, scented like roses and rot. The furniture shifted when they weren’t looking—elegant chairs coiled like snakes, portraits blinked when ignored. Everything whispered.

Rhea wasn’t afraid at first. Zane held her hand. He always made danger feel like foreplay.

The parlor was filled with mirrors—floor to ceiling, dozens of them. Each one cast their reflections back, but wrong. In some, Rhea was smiling when she wasn’t. In others, she was alone. In one, Zane kissed her neck—only he hadn’t moved.

She turned. He was staring at a mirror where he stood alone, shirtless, bruised, his eyes glassy like a doll’s. He didn’t move.

“Zane?” she asked.

“Baby,” he breathed, smiling, “I feel so high. Like I’m seeing heaven and back.”

He touched one of the mirrors. His fingers sank in. Liquid glass rippled, like he’d touched water.

The house exhaled, deep and wet.

Zane stepped forward, trance-like.

“No,” Rhea hissed, grabbing him. “Don’t—”

But the mirror yawned open, swallowed him whole. His voice came back echoing: “Come with me.”

Two go in.

The mirror flickered. Now it was her reflection inside. She was barefoot, running down endless velvet halls. Her mouth was open in a silent scream.

Rhea backed away.

“Zane!” she shouted. Nothing.

Then the music began. Soft. Sultry. “I think she’s going to hell and back…”

The house was moving. The wallpaper peeled like dead skin. The chandelier above them melted, hot wax dripping like tears. The floor beneath her shimmered—mirrors now, all of them—showing every angle of her, afraid and alone.

She ran.

Doors led nowhere. Stairs looped. Her hands bled from clawing the walls.

But the house whispered, “One comes out…”

And somehow, she was at the door again. Only her. Her reflection stared back at her in the glass—eyes wide, lips red, blood at her collar like a lover’s kiss.

She stumbled out into the night. Alone.

The fog swallowed the house behind her. When she looked back, it was gone. Just overgrown weeds and ash.

Rhea never spoke of what happened inside. Not really. But she stopped wearing lipstick. She stopped letting anyone touch her. Her smile disappeared. She stared at mirrors too long and flinched when music played in the dark.

And the children sang:

“Two go in, and one comes out,

Passion’s poison leaves no doubt.

In The Velvet House, beware the track—

Of love that goes to hell and back.”

And if you walk down Holloway Street on a summer night, sometimes, just sometimes, you’ll hear a man’s voice singing faintly in the fog.

Begging her to come back.