The dark Inheritance: The Gate to HELL

Mark had never expected much from life. He'd worked dead-end jobs in the city, rented a shoebox apartment above a noisy bar, and spent most days wondering if things would ever change. So when he received the news that his grandfather had passed and left him the old family farm, it felt like the world had handed him a second chance.

The farm was deep in the countryside, surrounded by thick forests and long-forgotten roads. It had been years since Mark visited as a child, but he remembered running through the fields and hearing old stories about "the woods that don't sleep." Back then, he thought they were just tales to scare a kid.

Now, standing at the edge of the overgrown driveway, staring at the warped wooden house, Mark felt something stir in his chest—hope, maybe. A fresh start.

The house, however, didn't share his optimism.

The paint had peeled away in strips, the windows were fogged with grime, and ivy climbed the exterior like skeletal fingers. Inside, time had frozen. Dust lay on every surface. Furniture stood exactly where it had decades ago, covered in white sheets and cobwebs. The air was heavy, almost thick, and smelled like earth and ash.

Mark wandered from room to room, opening windows, pulling back curtains, shaking off the past. He found stacks of old books, some burned at the corners, others filled with handwritten notes in a script he couldn't quite read. Most were about farming, astrology, weather patterns—but some had symbols he didn't recognize.

Then, in the living room, while lifting a crooked rug, he noticed a creaking floorboard. Curious, he pried it loose—and discovered a strange object wrapped in oilcloth. It was heavy and cold to the touch. When he unwrapped it, he found an old, thick book bound in black leather.

No title.

Only one thing marked the cover: letters gouged deep into the hide, as if scratched by claws.

"The Gate to HELL."