Ines Murillo arrived at Catherine House with almost nothing but a few worn clothes, her hidden memories, and a determination to start over. She was young, restless, and carrying the weight of a troubled past she refused to face directly. The House promised to be her salvation, though its salvation came at a cost. The admissions pamphlets had spoken of Catherine House as an institution like no other: three years of total devotion, three years of giving oneself over completely, in exchange for an education that opened doors to the most exclusive places in the world. Graduates were promised success beyond imagination—positions in governments, corporations, scientific institutes, and the arts. Ines had nowhere else to go, and though she barely admitted it to herself, she needed something that would obliterate her old life. Catherine House, hidden deep in the Pennsylvania woods, offered that obliteration.
When she first walked through the gates, she felt a strange shift in the air. The sprawling Gothic mansion was surrounded by dense forest, its towers and wings sprawling endlessly, like a labyrinth designed to swallow anyone who entered. The corridors seemed to wind in impossible directions, the rooms both grand and suffocating. Students whispered of hidden chambers, locked doors, and entire sections no one dared to enter. From the very beginning, Ines sensed that Catherine House was not simply a school. It was a living, breathing entity, demanding loyalty and secrecy. The rules were unyielding: no communication with the outside world, no visits home, no contact with family or friends. Once you entered, you belonged to the House. The past was erased. The future was theirs to dictate.
Ines quickly began to form bonds with her peers, though most connections felt tenuous, as if everyone were both drawn together and kept apart by invisible strings pulled by the House. Among them was Baby, a peculiar and vulnerable girl who latched onto Ines with a needy affection. Baby was impulsive, prone to wild moods, and often seemed desperate for love and recognition. Yet she had a warmth about her, a strange openness that softened her erratic behavior. Ines, who kept her heart guarded and her secrets buried, found herself both irritated by and drawn to Baby’s presence. They became close companions in those first months, sharing drinks, sneaking out of their dorms, and whispering late into the night about who they were before the House claimed them.
The daily rhythms of Catherine House were demanding, designed to consume every ounce of a student’s energy. Classes were rigorous, blending traditional subjects with strange new theories. But above all else, there was plasm. Though not everyone studied it directly, plasm permeated the House. It was whispered about in lectures, hinted at in rituals, and treated with reverence by the faculty. Plasm was described as a new state of matter, invisible and elusive, capable of reshaping the physical and spiritual world. It was said to bind people and objects, to create connections that defied logic. Only the most gifted students were chosen for the plasm program, where they disappeared into laboratories and private dormitories, consumed by experiments that blurred the line between science and magic.
Ines was not chosen, but she watched with growing fascination. Those who worked with plasm changed. They became detached, distant, their eyes hollow, their laughter fading into silence. They seemed to shed parts of themselves until what remained was only an outline. Baby longed to be admitted to plasm, convinced it was the way to prove her worth. When she was finally selected, her transformation was swift and unsettling. She withdrew from Ines, her energy unraveling, her mind fraying. The girl who once laughed too loudly and clung too tightly became fragile and fractured, as though plasm was pulling her apart from the inside.
Ines tried to distract herself with reckless behavior. She drank heavily, skipped classes, and sought fleeting moments of pleasure. Catherine House had its darker undercurrents of indulgence—parties, stolen liquor, forbidden relationships. But no matter how wild the night, she could not shake the feeling that something was watching, that the House itself was feeding off their excesses. Each indulgence left her emptier, each morning heavier with dread. Still, she kept going, unwilling to confront the emptiness gnawing at her.
When Baby’s decline reached its breaking point, Ines saw the truth of the House’s cost. Baby slipped further and further from reality, her laughter brittle, her eyes glassy. Then came the day of her death. The details were obscured—an accident, some said, or an unfortunate breakdown. The administration offered little explanation, their response brisk and clinical, as though Baby’s disappearance meant nothing at all. For Ines, the loss was devastating, even if she had not always known how to love Baby in return. She carried guilt, shame, and a growing suspicion that Baby’s unraveling had been orchestrated, not accidental. Catherine House consumed its own without hesitation.
After Baby’s death, Ines grew closer to Yaya, a brilliant and composed student who seemed to thrive at Catherine House. Yaya was beautiful, magnetic, and ambitious. She carried herself with confidence, as though she already belonged to the world the House promised. Ines was both intimidated by and attracted to her, and their relationship became a charged mixture of intimacy and tension. Through Yaya, Ines glimpsed the inner circles of Catherine House, where the brightest and most obedient students were cultivated for greatness. But even Yaya’s confidence could not disguise her unease. Behind her sharp intelligence was a wariness, a knowledge that the House’s gifts came at a steep price.
Driven by a mixture of fear and curiosity, Ines began to investigate the plasm program herself. She wandered the restricted halls late at night, searching for answers. One evening, she broke into the laboratories. The atmosphere was oppressive, thick with an energy that seemed to hum in her bones. Strange equipment lined the walls, filled with wires, glowing screens, and incomprehensible diagrams. Files lay scattered, filled with research that seemed less like science and more like alchemy. Ines read of experiments where plasm dismantled not just the body but the very self, dissolving the boundaries of identity. Students became test subjects, their personalities stripped away until they were unrecognizable, until they were nothing but vessels of the House’s experiment.
The revelation horrified her. Catherine House was not simply educating its students; it was using them. Plasm was not a gift but a consuming force. The promise of power was a lie—what the House truly offered was obliteration. Baby had not died by accident; she had been consumed, her identity shredded by plasm until nothing was left. Ines realized then that the House was not a sanctuary but a trap, its grandeur nothing more than a façade to lure the desperate and the gifted. It fed on their devotion, their ambitions, and their willingness to surrender.
Ines tried to pull away, to resist, but Catherine House had already woven itself into her. The House worked like plasm itself, dismantling the will of those inside. Students who once dreamed of escape began to accept their fate, persuaded that surrender was liberation. Ines oscillated between defiance and temptation. There were moments she longed to leave, to run back to the world outside, no matter how broken. But there were also moments when the House’s promise whispered to her, promising to erase her grief, her guilt, her memories of the past. It tempted her with the idea of freedom not through escape, but through dissolution—through becoming part of something greater than herself.
As the end of her third year approached, Ines found herself standing at the edge of choice. She had witnessed what the House did to others, she had seen Baby consumed, and yet the pull remained. Catherine House promised to transform her, to strip away the pain of her past and give her a place in a world she had never truly belonged to. But that place came at the cost of her identity, her selfhood, perhaps even her soul.
She walked the halls in those final days, touching the walls as though they pulsed with breath, listening to the low hum of plasm that echoed through the foundation. Every corridor seemed to lead to the same question: escape or surrender. Freedom or obliteration. But Catherine House blurred the line between those choices until it was no longer clear which was which. To leave was to face the pain she had buried. To stay was to dissolve into something unrecognizable.
The story of Ines at Catherine House ended not with a clear answer, but with an unshakable ambiguity. She stood in the shadow of the House, caught between terror and desire, freedom and captivity. Catherine House remained eternal, its halls filled with whispers, its laboratories humming with plasm, its promise both alluring and fatal. And for Ines, there was no escape from the haunting truth: once you entered Catherine House, it never truly let you go.