An interactive horror story written by me, Alex Mura, in collaboration with my fans. Each episode is shaped by live stream input, making you part of the story’s creation. Want to influence what happens next? Join my TikTok Lives and help steer the chaos.

 

SAY HIS NAME

Episode 1

On nights like these, the stone of the Tudor Gothic house looked like it belonged on a book cover. It sat proudly in the suburbs of St Andrews, watching over quiet residential streets lit by the warm glow of streetlamps.

Inside, the heating gave up the fight before it even began. With an EPC rating of E, the place had been chosen entirely for its “vibe,” not its ability to keep anyone alive past December. The radiators clanked half-heartedly, like they were sighing at their own existence. The heavy embroidered curtains helped a little, but mostly reminded them how much they were overpaying to rent the place.

In the slightly-too-grand sitting room, Chloe knelt by the fireplace, poking at the logs with the fire poker. A few sparks jumped up but fizzled out just as quickly. She didn’t really care about the fire. Her eyes were elsewhere, flitting from friend to friend like she was studying them for a psychology paper she hadn’t been assigned.

Georgia had claimed the cream sofa, of course. She was sprawled across it like a cat, scrolling through her phone with a deadpan expression. It had been her idea to buy that sofa, and her idea for everyone to split the cost. Now she acted like she didn’t even like it. Georgia had a talent for making comfort look boring.

Darcy sat next to her, curly hair fluffed to perfection, one leg crossed over the other. She didn’t say much at first, just gave a running commentary in her head, probably judging everything from Emma’s socks to the shade of grout in the fireplace tiles. Darcy didn’t speak unless it was to be sharp.

Emma had curled herself into the armchair like a cat that didn’t trust the room. She was wrapped in a blanket, holding a mug of tea with both hands like it was a precious relic. She always looked cold, even when she wasn’t. Thin, quiet, and a little too observant for someone so timid.

“Why did we pick this house again?” she said eventually, the steam from her tea rising past her face.

Darcy glanced at her. “Because it was the best house around, obviously.”

Emma didn’t blink. “It doesn’t have double glazing.”

“Easily fixed,” Darcy said, lifting a brow. “We replace all the windows. Simple.”

Emma stared. “You want us to renovate a rental?”

Darcy grinned. “I’m just offering solutions. You’re the one who loves problems.”

From the hallway came a loud crash—followed by a guilty pause.

Damien entered holding a tray of garlic bread, most of it slightly burnt. He gave them all a wide, awkward grin like a waiter who’d just dropped a steak.

“It’s edible,” he announced. “Just...crispy.”

He set the tray down like it might explode, then hovered for a moment. No one clapped. No one even reached for a piece.

Chloe gave him a half-smile. Damien didn’t notice. He ended up perching on the edge of a tiny cushioned stool like it might reject him at any moment.

Elise stiffly sat beside Chloe. Her eyes were everywhere. Every creak of the house made her flinch. Every gust of wind against the windows had her gripping the seat. She looked like she was ready to flee at the first sign of anything mildly spooky.

“Can everyone please stop slamming doors?” she muttered.

“No one is,” Chloe said, glancing up.

“It’s the wind,” someone offered.

Elise shook her head. “It sounds like footsteps.”

Chloe gave a tired shrug. “It always sounds like footsteps.”

Elise leaned in a little, her voice quieter now, nearly lost beneath the steady gusts pressing against the glass. “I still think this house feels… off.”

She looked at Chloe like she expected her to fix it somehow.

Chloe didn’t reply right away. She shifted slightly, brushing a bit of ash off her leggings. “Off can be interesting,” she said. “Interesting can be useful.”

Darcy groaned and flopped backwards into the sofa cushions like she was auditioning for a melodrama. “Useful for what? Hosting a séance? Finding asbestos?”

Chloe just smiled faintly. She reached for the battered notebook beside her. Its leather cover was cracked and stained, the pages sticking out in uneven little curls. It looked like it had been passed down through a haunted generation of teenage goths. She ran a thumb along the edge.

Outside, the drizzle turned into proper rain, ticking steadily against the windows.

“Speaking of interesting…” Chloe started, her voice casual, but everyone had gone quiet. Even the wind seemed to pause, waiting for the punchline. “I might’ve found a way to make tonight slightly less depressing.”

Georgia sighed without looking up. “Define ‘interesting,’ Chloe,” she said, her voice flat. “Because if this is about playing Jenga again, I will personally throw myself through one of these single-glazed nightmares.”

Darcy grinned. “You’d bounce. Then freeze. Then we’d have to chip you off the carpet like an ice sculpture.”

Emma, still cocooned in her blanket, lifted her mug. “Would save money on a funeral. Heating bill’s killing us anyway.”

Georgia finally looked up, unimpressed. “Emma, do you have to turn everything into a crisis?”

“I’m just being realistic,” Emma said.

Damien wandered back in from the kitchen, holding a mismatched plate piled with sad-looking pizza slices and a handful of sausage rolls that had definitely seen better days. He held it out like it was a gift.

“Dinner is served,” he said. “Straight from the microwave of mediocrity.”

Darcy didn’t even try to hide her expression. “You microwave food like it owes you money.”

“Hey,” Damien said, wounded. “It was either that or raw. This is me being a hero.”

“A hero with a death wish,” she muttered, eyeing the blackened crusts.

“Can we please focus?” Chloe said, raising her voice just enough to cut through the noise. “This is important.”

Damien slowly sat down, plate still in hand, as if afraid she was about to ask them to join a cult.

Elise adjusted her cardigan and looked toward the hallway. Another creak echoed from somewhere beyond. She tensed. “What kind of important?”

Chloe didn’t answer right away. She let the silence hang for a second, dramatic as ever. Then she held up the notebook like she’d just uncovered treasure. “I found this in the wine cellar.”

Georgia groaned. “You gonna read us a bedtime story?”

“No, listen,” Chloe said, more serious now. “It’s some old diary. I found it behind some of those boxes that were here when we moved in.”

That got Emma’s attention. She leaned forward a bit, the mug tucked under her chin. “Whose is it?”

Chloe opened the notebook slowly, her fingers careful now. “Not sure. There’s no name inside. Just…weird entries. Drawings. Dates that don’t make sense. Notes about the house.”

“You think it belonged to the previous owner?” Emma asked.

Chloe shrugged, flipping open the notebook like it was no big deal. “Dunno who wrote it. Doesn’t say. But listen to this bit...” She ran a finger down the page, squinting a little at the messy scrawl. “The handwriting gets all shaky here, like the guy was freaking out while writing.”

She cleared her throat. “‘Freddie,’” she began, “‘that’s what they called him, anyway. Poor, weak Freddie, they’d chant. Starved-looking. Sickly. Legs like bones, could barely stand. Always hiding in the dark corners, never speaking. Then one winter he locked himself away, down below, away from them all, where no one would find him.’”

Darcy gave an exaggerated shiver. “Jesus, Chloe, are you sure this isn’t some gothic novella you scribbled when you were fourteen?”

Chloe shot her a look. “I didn’t even have the attention span to finish a blog post at fourteen.”

“It’s creepy,” Elise whispered, chewing nervously on a nail. “I don’t like it.”

Damien perked up, edging forward on the sofa. “Down below... like, the cellar?”

“Maybe,” Chloe said. “The rest just kind of cuts off. Like whoever was writing gave up. Last entry’s dated 1884.”

Everyone went quiet for a second. Rain drummed steadily on the windows now, and the fire gave a soft pop. Emma’s tea sloshed quietly as she tightened her grip on the mug.

Georgia groaned. “So what? Some random Victorian kid got sad and disappeared into a hole. That’s the story?”

Chloe’s eyes glinted. “Not quite.” She flipped ahead, scanning another page. “There’s this part here, it describes a game. Or a ritual. Something like that. Basically, if you say his name three times in front of a mirror at midnight... he appears.”

Darcy laughed through a mouthful of garlic bread. “So we’ve moved on to knock-off Bloody Mary now? What’s next, Ouija board from Poundland?”

“It’s just a story,” Chloe said with a smirk. “But we’ve got a mirror. We’ve got a creepy house. We’ve got midnight in—” she checked her phone “—eighteen minutes.”

Elise clutched her sleeves. “I really don’t think we should.”

“Oh, come on,” Chloe said, nudging her knee. “It’s a dumb game. Say a name, nothing happens, we all go to bed bored but smug.”

Emma looked up slowly. “Doesn’t it feel... I don’t know... wrong? Like mocking someone?”

Georgia rolled her eyes. “Mocking who? Sad ghost boy from 1884? I’m sure he’s over it by now.”

Damien was still staring at the notebook. “Maybe it wasn’t just teasing,” he said, voice quieter. “Sounds like they were cruel.”

Darcy side-eyed him. “Alright, Plato. Let’s not get too deep about it.”

Chloe held up a hand again. “Look. It’s probably nonsense. But if this place is half as dead as Georgia says, we might as well spice it up. Worst case, nothing happens. Best case, we get a viral TikTok.”

“A test, then,” Georgia said dryly. “Of our stupidity.”

Chloe grinned. “Of our nerve.”

Emma stared into her mug like it might answer for her. Elise looked like she might run out the door and never come back. Darcy smirked but tugged her cardigan tighter. Even Damien didn’t look entirely sold.

Chloe shut the notebook with a snap. “So,” she said, leaning forward like they were making a pact. “Who’s in?”

Everyone averted their gaze. 

Chloe stood up and nodded toward the hallway. “Come on. The mirror in the wine cellar, perfect setting. Who’s doing it?”

Darcy stretched, her back popping like bubble wrap. “Well, since you’re all obviously quaking—”

“Nope,” Chloe cut in, already looking at Emma. “Emma should do it.”

Emma froze, teacup halfway to her mouth. “Me?”

Darcy beamed. “Perfect. Our brave little optimist.”

Emma glanced around in panic, hoping someone would step in. No one did. Chloe just smiled, unbothered. “Prove it’s just a silly story.”

With a sigh, Emma set her tea down and stood slowly, her hands trembling. “Fine. But if I get possessed, I’m haunting you first, Darcy.”

Damien gave a weak laugh. “We’ll film it. If something horrible happens, we go viral. At least we’ll die famous.”

“Can we not joke about this?” Elise said sharply, arms crossed tight, voice cracking a little.

Chloe reached out and gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “It’s fine. Nothing’s going to happen.” She passed the notebook to Damien. “Hold this. In case we need… evidence.”

He nodded, clutching it like a cursed object.

They headed for the cellar at the far end of the hall. Chloe opened the door, and a cold gust rolled out, like the house itself was exhaling. Emma hesitated at the top step, staring down into the dark.

Georgia smirked. “Second thoughts?”

“Third. Maybe fourth,” Emma muttered, stepping in anyway.

The cellar smelled of damp stone and rust, maybe even something faintly metallic, like old coins or dried blood. Emma tried not to think about it. The floor was cold through her socks.

The mirror stood propped against the far wall, covered by a dusty sheet. Emma pulled it down, sending dust into the air. Her own reflection stared back—nervous, pale, like someone standing in for her.

Darcy leaned against the doorframe, phone already recording. “Any last words?”

Emma didn’t answer. She just took a breath, squared her shoulders, and looked the mirror dead on.

“Skinny Freddie, show your face.”

Nothing. Just her own shaky reflection and the soft rustle of someone behind her shifting their weight.

She tried again, louder. “Skinny Freddie, show your face.”

Still nothing. The silence stretched, just long enough to feel awkward.

Emma gave one last attempt. “Skinny Freddie, take our place.”

The air grew colder. Emma shivered, though she wasn’t sure why. Her reflection didn’t change. But she had the sudden, irrational sense that something in the room had.

Georgia, impatient as ever, spoke first. “Well? Did Freddie pop in for a visit?”

Emma took a quick step back, forcing a laugh. “Nope. Just me, freezing my toes off.”

Darcy sighed, dramatically tapping her phone screen. “What a let-down. No ghost. No scream. Not even a flicker.”

Chloe stepped halfway down the stairs, peering around. “Maybe Freddie’s shy. Or dead busy.”

Damien fiddled with the notebook. “Maybe there’s a catch. Like it has to be exactly midnight or some ritual timing thing?”

Chloe shrugged and took it back. “Or maybe someone just liked writing creepy nonsense.”

They turned back, heading toward the sitting room. Emma lingered for half a second, glancing once more at the mirror.

Her reflection was pale. Too pale. But maybe it was the light. Maybe it was just her nerves.

She turned away and started up the stairs. Only, in that moment, she could’ve sworn her reflection didn’t move. It just stood there, watching, a second too long.

Back in the sitting room, the earlier buzz—half boredom, half mild chaos—had drained out, leaving behind a silence that didn’t quite feel empty.

Elise sat curled up in the corner of the sofa, knees pulled tight to her chest, eyes fixed on the hallway like she was waiting for something to crawl out of it. Georgia was back on her phone, but the screen was barely lit, her thumb unmoving. She wasn’t scrolling anymore, just holding it like a comfort blanket. Darcy slouched beside her, arms folded, occasionally muttering under her breath about how “anticlimactic” the whole thing had been, though no one seemed to be listening.

Emma stood near the fireplace, still and pale, the mug of tea she’d clung to earlier now abandoned on the mantelpiece. She kept rubbing her arms through her sleeves like her body was still trying to shake off the cellar cold. Damien hovered nearby, shifting his weight from foot to foot, halfway into a joke about the heating before giving up entirely.

On the rug, Chloe sat cross-legged, the notebook open in her lap. She was turning the pages slower now, less like she was looking for something and more like she wasn’t sure she wanted to find it. The entries past the halfway point had changed. Sentences trailed off mid-thought. Names were scribbled out violently. Some paragraphs had been written over in red, blotchy ink, as though whoever was writing had changed their mind halfway through and decided to scream instead.

She tilted the book closer to the firelight and read aloud without looking up. “December 3rd, 1893. Heard it again last night. Two knocks, then something dragging. I lit every candle I had. Still, the mirror...’”

She paused.

“I locked every door but he still found me. He only needs to be invited once. He won’t leave until the sun comes up.”

The fire hissed, like it was listening.

Chloe turned the page. The handwriting grew worse. Shaky. Slanted.

“My legs. He took my legs.”

Then, on the next page, one final note, written sideways, cramped in the margin like it had been squeezed in with a dying breath:

“He only goes for the legs. Said they reminded him of his own.”

Chloe stared at it for a moment, unmoving. Then she shut the book.

She looked up slowly. “Elise,” she said, voice just a touch too bright, “you’re a runner, right?”

Everyone turned to look at her.

Elise blinked. “What?”

“Your legs,” Chloe said, smiling, but not with her eyes. “They’re nice.”

Darcy raised an eyebrow. “That’s… a weird compliment, even for you.”

No one laughed.

Chloe lowered her gaze to the book. Her thumb smudged a soot streak across the leather cover. She looked like she wanted to say something else, but didn’t get the chance.

A thump landed above them.

Just loud enough to cut through the silence and make the room go still.

Elise sat bolt upright.

“What was that?” she whispered.

They all listened. Nothing.

Chloe tried a smile. “Old house. Loose tile. Wind.”

But then it came again, longer this time. A slow, dragging scrape, like something heavy being pulled across the floorboards directly above them.

Emma’s head snapped up. “That… wasn’t the wind.”

Crack! The fireplace spat, and every single one of them flinched.

Silence took over again, leaving them with the hum of old pipes and the faint drip of rain outside.

Damien’s voice came out quieter than usual. “It’s above the landing. Right over the hall.”

Darcy stood abruptly, hands on her hips. “Okay. I’ll say it, fuck this.”

No one argued.

Chloe stayed where she was, fingers resting on the notebook like it might offer answers or some kind of protection. Her thumb traced slow, absent circles over the cracked leather, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

Above them, something moved again. Another long drag, slower this time. Sticky-sounding, like a chair leg being pulled through syrup.

Emma’s eyes shot up to the ceiling. “That’s not the wind.”

Damien turned in a full circle, pale as ever. “Should we… check upstairs?”

Nobody moved.

Then—tap. Tap. Tap. Light footsteps pacing directly above their heads.

Darcy let out a breathy laugh. “Freddie’s home,” she said, but her voice had lost all confidence.

Chloe didn’t smile. She gripped the notebook tighter in her lap, flipping it closed. For the first time, she looked uncertain. She scanned the ceiling, then the hallway, like she was trying to do the maths and couldn’t make it add up.

Elise sank deeper into the sofa, whispering something under her breath. “We shouldn’t have done it. I said we shouldn’t have.”

Emma stayed frozen by the fireplace, eyes fixed on the hallway leading back to the cellar. Her heart was racing, loud enough she swore she could hear it echoing in her ears.

Another scrape. Slow and steady. Something heavy being pulled across floorboards.

The room felt smaller, like it was trying to press them all to the floor.

Chloe gave a nervous chuckle. “Come on. It’s nothing. Old houses make weird noises, everyone knows that.”

Georgia finally set her phone down, jaw clenched. “Yeah, well, it doesn’t sound like ‘nothing.’ Sounds like someone’s up there.”

“Could be a squatter,” Damien offered. “Or rats. Maybe big ones.”

“Sure,” Darcy muttered. “Big rats who drag furniture around in their spare time.”

A thump hit again. Louder, more intentional.

Elise gasped, hands clutching at the cushion beneath her. “Chloe. Please. We should call someone.”

Chloe didn’t answer. Her fingers flipped frantically through the notebook, skimming for something she’d missed. The earlier smugness was gone.

Emma didn’t move. She just stood there, arms wrapped tightly across her chest, her whole body shivering like the cold had gotten inside her bones. Her eyes lingered on the dark hallway again, lips parting slightly.

“Do you think…” she started.

Damien looked over. “Think what?”

Emma hesitated. “Maybe… we actually did something. Opened something.”

Georgia snorted, but it sounded forced. “Don’t start. This isn’t a movie. We said a name in a mirror. That’s it.”

Before anyone could respond, three sharp knocks echoed from the cellar door.

Everyone stopped breathing.

One, two, three. Like someone knocking gently, politely, waiting to be let in.

Darcy stared down the hallway, eyes wide and whispered, “please tell me I’m not the only one who heard that.”

Damien stared at her. “Nope. Total group hallucination. We’re imagining the exact same noise, at the exact same time, for no reason at all.”

Another knock. Slower now. Louder.

Chloe stood up slowly, her eyes locked on the hallway. “Someone’s messing with us,” she said and took one cautious step forward.

Darcy reached out, grabbed her wrist. “Don’t. Seriously. Don’t leave us here.”

Emma edged closer to Elise without thinking, drawn by instinct more than anything. Elise didn’t react. She was fixed on the doorway, frozen, like something was about to come charging through it.

“Maybe…” Damien tried. His voice cracked. “Maybe it’s a tree branch. Against a window.”

Emma shook her head. “There aren’t any trees near the house.”

Then everything broke.

The cellar door jolted in its frame, handle rattling violently. Like someone was grabbing it—someone angry and impatient. The sound of metal straining against wood rang out across the room, harsh and loud, scraping into their bones.

Elise gave a choked cry and curled in on herself.

Emma’s voice came out certain. “It’s him. It’s Freddie.”

The sitting room door slammed shut with a violent thud. It rattled in its frame, as if something had thrown it closed from the other side. Everyone jumped. Elise gasped. Damien flinched so hard he knocked over a coaster.

Silence clamped down on the room.

Then came the sound.

Dragging.

Slow. Wet. A dull scrape on the wooden hallway floor. It inched closer to the living room. Mixed in with it—barely audible—came whispers. Sharp little gasps, like someone struggling to breathe.

Georgia shot to her feet, backing toward Darcy, the panic breaking through. “Chloe,” she snapped. “What the hell did you make us do?”

Chloe didn’t move. Her face was pale, her hands shaking around the notebook. “I didn’t, it was just a story. I didn’t think—”

The dragging stopped. Right outside the living room door.

No one moved. 

Chloe took a step forward, slow and stiff, and reached for the door.

It creaked open.

At first, just a faint light from the hallway bulb, flickering slightly.

Then their eyes adjusted.

A dark, wet streak cut across the hallway carpet. Red. Smudged. Still glistening. Like something had been pulled, leaving a trail behind. The smear led all the way to the cellar door at the far end of the hall.

It was open just an inch.

Elise whimpered and grabbed Emma’s arm, tight.

“Chloe,” Emma said, her voice barely there, “we have to leave. Now.”

Before Chloe could answer, the lights flickered once. Then again.

Then everything went black.

Emma held her breath. Her heart slammed against her chest like it wanted out.

And from somewhere deeper in the house, from behind the walls or below the floor, came a voice.

Dry. Thin. Whispering with something close to laughter.

“Say my name again.”

The lights snapped back on. Dim. Uneven. The hallway was empty.

No blood. No trail. No noise.

The cellar door stood wide open. 

(End of Episode 1)

 

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