No Fear of Haunted Houses (Patreon)

— "Damn it! What the hell…?" — Mark was sitting in a posture typical for a man, which sharply contrasted with his current body and clothing. He stared at his slender hands, painted nails, and ridiculous stockings. His chest tightened with rage and humiliation, and his gaze wandered around the room, trying to make sense of what was happening.

— "Calm down… just calm down…" — he muttered under his breath, but the high, melodic voice only made him angrier. Just a few hours ago, he was an ordinary guy, determined to prove to his friends that all those stories about the "cursed house" were complete nonsense. Yeah, he entered on a dare, to show everyone that he had the guts. Seemed like a simple plan—get in and get out, show his friends it was all a joke. But as soon as he crossed the threshold, something in the house changed. At first, it seemed funny, almost thrilling, but then…

— "What the…?" — he took a nervous breath, feeling the foreign body struggle to breathe in the tight corset fabric. The sensation was driving him insane. He looked at himself in the mirror and clenched his teeth: long black hair fell in waves over his shoulders, brushing against his unfamiliar body.

— "Alright, calm down… I’ll just find that witch and demand she turn everything back," — Mark tried to stand up but almost fell right away. His boots, laced up and perched on high heels, felt unbearably uncomfortable. He cursed softly, bracing his hands against his knees. — "This is just some stupid hallucination. This… all of this… is just a trick."

The mocking words of the woman who called herself the "keeper of the house" echoed in his memory. "You, Mark, will now become what you always despised," she whispered when his body began to pulse and contort in strange ways. "You always thought women were weak, pathetic? Let’s see how you handle this, my little Margaret."

— "I’m not Margaret," — he whispered to himself, staring at the mirror. — "I’m… Mark. I’m… damn it!"

How could he prove that it was really him when the reflection showed a slim, delicate girl with pale skin, accentuated eyes, and that outrageously provocative outfit? She looked like some kind of gothic chick.

— "Oh, for God’s sake… Look at me!" — he hissed in horror, touching his face, feeling the softness of unfamiliar skin and the delicate curve of the neck. Every movement—from the trembling in his fingers to the involuntary shuddering of his chest—irritated and crushed him.

The door creaked open, and the same woman stepped into the room.

— "Well, Margaret…" — she said calmly. — "Are you just going to sit here, or will you start fulfilling your duties?"

— "Go to hell, you damned witch!" — Mark squealed, but then clenched his teeth, feeling how the voice betrayed him.

— "Oh, is that the new language of maids?" — the woman sighed theatrically, as if seriously pondering his words. — "I suppose I’ll have to reconsider your duties."

— "Are you kidding me?" — Mark tried to get up, but those cursed boots slid on the carpet, making him wobble and fall back onto the chair. Damn it, he couldn’t even stand properly in these ridiculous women’s clothes! — "Turn everything back!" — he demanded in a harsh whisper, trying to sound as firm as possible, but his new voice still shook treacherously.

— "Turn back?" — her thin eyebrows arched in mocking surprise. — "Do you really think everything can be undone just like that?" — she scoffed. — "No, sweetie. You’re my maid now. My little toy. Sit here as long as you want. We have plenty of time." With these words, she turned and left the room without looking back, leaving Margaret alone.

Mark gritted his teeth, staring at his reflection. He wasn’t going to give up. No damned house was going to tell him who to be.

— "I won’t give up," — he whispered, looking at his fragile, unfamiliar reflection. — "I’ll find a way… I’ll find a way to turn everything back!"

But for now… Damn it, he didn’t even know where to start. He had already tried every way to get out of here, but each time, he ended up back in this room...