In a dilapidated house, lost amidst a dense forest, an old witch once lived. It was said that she lured travelers into her domain, promising help, and in return took their souls. The house has long been abandoned, but the curse remained — every midnight, whispers could be heard inside, and the steps were covered with a strange dust, as if someone invisible had been walking on them.

Two friends, captivated by the idea of staging a mystical photo shoot, decided to take the photos here. They wanted to convey a contrast: innocence and darkness, light and gloom. One put on a white dress, like a bride, the other wore a black outfit and a hat, as if embodying the mistress of the house herself. They didn’t wear shoes: they wanted the looks to look more natural and the shots to be more dramatic.

At first, everything went well. The girls laughed and posed among the cobwebs, unaware of how the dust settled on their bare feet, seeping into their skin and turning their soles dark, as if they had walked hundreds of miles along abandoned paths. But the longer they stayed in the house, the harder it became to breathe. The air grew thicker, filled with the smell of dampness and something rotten.

When the sun disappeared behind the forest, the shadows in the corner began to stir. The web, which had previously seemed like just a prop, now seemed to have a life of its own — thin threads stretched toward the girls, wrapping around their ankles as if trying to hold them in place. The friends exchanged glances: in each other’s eyes, they saw fear.

“We need to leave,” the one in white whispered.

But as soon as she took a step, the steps creaked beneath her feet, as if someone heavy were descending from above. The girls froze. In the silence, a quiet laugh rang out — low, hoarse, foreign. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

They rushed toward the exit, but the faster they ran, the longer the corridor became. Every step they took with their bare, dirty feet seemed to absorb their strength. Dust rose in clouds, settling on their skin, and soon the girls felt their feet growing heavy, as if stones had stuck to them.

When they finally managed to break free, the forest around them had changed. The trees leaned over them as if they wanted to grab them with their branches, and the path they had come along disappeared. The friends stopped, breathing heavily, and looked at each other. Their eyes fell on their feet: the dirt on the soles was no longer just dust — it resembled dried blood.

From that day on, no one ever saw those girls again. And in the abandoned house, traces of bare feet are sometimes found — dirty, as if they had just been left. And if you listen carefully, you can catch the quiet laughter of the old witch in the wind, pleased that her curse is still alive.