It's All Hallows' Eve, and you're gearing up for the most eventful night of your life. While young children are out trick-or-treating, you've made your way to the one house people always skip. It's the abandoned mansion, rumoured to be haunted.

Dared by your friends to spend a night in the haunted house, will you survive the night, or will you uncover the truth behind the rumours?

The glimmering moon shines bright and center like a beacon. Little monsters frolic freely in the raw night in search for treats, yet I succumb to tricks.

It's safe for children within the boundaries of my hometown during All Hallows' Eve. However, I'm being pulled farther from the festivities and closer to the Cantor Mansion on the outskirts of town. My stomach is upset as if moths flutter within yet I haven't had a single piece of candy.

This idea, this foolish bet concocted by my intoxicated companions, will become my undoing. My chest is pressed by the fear of farfetched possibilities that my horrid imagination creates just by the thought of the abandoned mansion. The building is the last remaining structure of a village that stood on the land about two hundred years ago, and perhaps the cause for the construction of the town I reside in now. The gossip became stronger throughout the years and is now a local legend.

The only records of the Cantor name referred to a wealthy couple, a man and a woman who bore no children of their own. In the dead of night, villagers awoke to an eerie echo - a disturbing mixture of shrieks and sobs coming from the mansion. They grew suspicions and declared an attack against the wicked secrecy of the Cantor couple, but could not find the source of the desperate pleads.

It is believed that whoever was held prisoner in the mansion never escaped, even from death, and still wakes the villagers to this day. I've had no such experience. However, that may change after tonight, for another rumor states that those who enter the Cantor Mansion will be trapped along with the disembodied vocals of the tortured soul.

That is my dare - to wait until dawn.

The dark pines open like a stage curtain. The cobble road leads my friends and me to a black-iron and raw stone fence containing multiple acres of wilted grass on barren soil, the mansion planted in the center. My friends, a passionate and careless couple, drop me off at the gate before necking one another. I collect my satchel and watch the pine trees consume the automobile's headlights. There they go to continue their night of trickery.

The frigid night and carnivorous wolves stop me from traveling miles of woods back to town, so I hope morning comes faster than tonight's harsh winds, the same winds that push the iron gates before me. They open and whine like cranky toddlers. I walk through the threshold, a barrier between the present and the past, life and death.

The building is three stories high and has three rows of tall windows with cracked, cloudy glass. No light, no movement, as if each holds its own personal abyss. The patio is raised by decomposing planks. I carefully scale the creaking stairs. They announce my arrival. The front door is ajar as if it's expecting company, and I am welcomed.

Darkness overwhelms my senses. The air tastes of stale wafers and reeks of mildew. I walk forward and ignite my lantern. My sight is limited just beyond the tip of my nose, but I realize I'm in a foyer with a pile of rubble that once was the grand staircase. I spot tears in the wallpaper, antique furniture covered by dusty sheets. Cobwebs in the corners, the ceiling's debris on the floor, and no strands of glimmering moonlight piercing the dull windows.

During my exploration of the foyer, I come across a door that reveals a parlor room of some sorts. A trio of sofas rest underneath their veils while a nearby, hungry fireplace mourns for companionship. Though rather stuffy, I decide to rest there. I place my satchel down to build a fire using broken planks and a tinderbox I had brought. The lively sways of the fire brighten my mood, and I pull a sofa closer to it to keep warm. My pocket watch says a quarter after nine. Time is my ally. I pull a flask from my satchel and swig a large helping of whiskey. The sooner I sleep, the sooner morning breaks. Within minutes I forgot the situation and escape into oblivion.

A chaotic boom disturbs my slumber and shocks my body with energy. The fire has dulled and the night still lives. Another boom brings me to my feet. I grab the lantern and ignite it. Whatever is causing this vicious racket sounds as if it's occupying the front gates.

Boom!

Correction - it's next door in the foyer.

I'm limited with options of escape. The only route possible is an opening in the parlor room opposite of the fireplace. It leads to a small flight of iron steps concealed by a narrow stairwell. I scale upwards, my heart growing heavier the closer the top of my head came to the stairwell's stone-cold ceiling.

At the top of the stairs stands a wooden door that dampened over the long years. I reach for the handle. On contact, a thunderous blast bellows from the bottom of the steps. My frantic feet push me forward in response, through the door, leading me into a dark corridor.

I slam the door behind me. My heart knocks against it, but I dare not open to face the source of a sound so petrifying that it made my soul leap through my very skin. It sounded as if a pistol had been fired. Someone else is here. Though my wits betray me, the floor below is as quiet as a morgue. It has been since I slammed the door shut.

Slammed the door . . .

Against my better judgement, I open the door and shine the lantern through. Not a peep is heard. The stairwell is empty, but what I see at the bottom of the steps had not been there before - a door, closed tightly by hinges that were once vacant. This dare is over. It's not worth it. I rush down the cramped flight of stairs and pull the phantom door's handle.

Locked.

Dozens of questions race through my head like a swarm of angry bees, but finding the answers to them must wait. I need to escape, but like a hooked trout, I'm being reeled up towards the unknown and possibly my demise.

The second floor corridor is in decent shape compared to the mansion's overall outer appearance. On first impression, I thought it to be a decomposing building with rotten air and dusty coatings. There are no holes in the walls and no windows to see through. The windows. I saw them earlier from the outside. Where are they? It's all bricks and no glass. No openings except for a door on the left wall.

Heavy footsteps climb the stairs. This might be my only choice. I sprint to the lone door and reach for the handle with all my faith. However, that faith shatters when the door refuses to budge.

I hear the handle at the end of the corridor stir. A quick click, a sharp crank. I dart away in search of refuge and come across another door at the opposite end, fortunately unlocked. Behind it is another staircase similar to the one prior. It matches the pungent stench of mold and leaves a

sour taste on my pallet. I scale once more. The bitter draft hits the erect hairs on the back of my neck and slams the door behind me shut - a lie I desperately wish to believe.

The third floor also lacks windows and entries excluding a door on the left wall and a door on the far end of the corridor. However, the door on the side seems to be ajar. Am I daft enough to try my luck? The bottom step below moans like a ghost. I rush in the room, but freeze. There's only but a cage with thick bars that could comfortably contain a duo of lions. Its hatch is wide open and the lock seems well-preserved. Inside is a muddy blanket torn at the seams.

It takes me a longing second, but I decide to continue running though I fear a dead end soon awaits beyond the third floor's last door. The stalking footsteps arrive on my level when my nervous hand grasps the handle. I struggle to rush through. My eyes sting with salty sweat and dust, but I manage to climb yet another steep staircase. A door waits at the top. Some hope is restored.

Another corridor.

There are three stories to this mansion, correct? There's the lone door again on the left wall. I barge in without any concern. A cage, another cage? Like the one downstairs - thick iron bars corroded by time imprisoning a torn blanket.

The footsteps ring loud like a tympani. I cannot ponder for a moment. I rush to the end and there stands another door, behind it another staircase that leads to a fifth floor.

What is this trickery?

The stomps are blaring louder on iron steps and penetrate my eardrums with forceful stabs. I frantically climb until I'm in another corridor of - ha! Of the fifth floor! Yes, it's similar to those below - one door on the left and one door at the end. The cage inside the room remains untouched and there its prisoner pathetically lays in strands.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Was that my stalker or my heart? The beat grows faster than my sprints. The door in the end is waiting to be fondled and I oblige. I climb the murky stairwell. The door behind me slams without being touched. In a violent panic, I trip and drop my lantern. It tumbles down the steps, but I continue on. I enter the sixth floor of this three story mansion. I slam the door behind me. I enter the bleak room and find the rusted cage and its dirty, old blanket. The footsteps are closing in on me, louder and stronger.

I sprint to a false end. A murky stairwell. A seventh floor. A door against my back. A rusted cage and a damned blanket. The footsteps, that forceful boom! It's devouring my senses! Am I going mad?

The stairwell. An eighth floor. The slam. The cage. That wretched blanket.

The footsteps! They're behind me!

Stairs. A Corridor. Slams, rust, and threads!

Boom!

No more! Leave me be!

The tenth, the eleventh, the twelfth - infinite! I continue until my legs give on the thirteenth floor. I lay like a fish out of water and violently inhale dust particles. No more, I say. No more climbing. No more running. I cannot continue this route.

Boom . . . boom . . .

The sound. It is not of the rings of iron steps. It is my heart pounding against the floorboards. My ear is as well. I hear silence below me, and in time, I realize I can rest, but my safety remains threatened.

As I crawl through the only room in the corridor, I discover a narrow opening in the wall where the cage leans. Through it I can see a glimmer of the purest, white light. It cannot be! A blessing it is for the moon to find me in a cursed place that bears no escape! Like a young child running towards its mother, I rush in the cage and stretch my arm through the narrow window. For a moment, I feel freedom.

A rattled slam, a sharp crank. My soul leaves my body. The door to the cage is shut. Locked. Like a frightened animal, I shake the bars and shout curses into the empty room, but it's no use. I'm trapped. After some time, I hold the blanket close for comfort and sob into its soft yet filthy fabric. I yell through the window, but despite my cries echoing in the night, no one will ever dare question the rumors of the Cantor Mansion.