HAUNTED HOUSE

The Whispering Walls

 The Invitation

There was a house on the outskirts of town. No one ever went near it, and no one spoke about it. The house had stood for over a century, a looming presence at the end of Hollow Lane. The windows were covered with grime, and the front yard was overgrown with vines. Locals referred to it only as “The Old Place”—a place where nothing good could ever come from.

But for Emma Parker, that very house was about to become the center of her life.

It had started with a letter. Unmarked, with a thick, waxen seal pressed into the paper. No return address. Just a name—Emma Parker, in elegant cursive. When Emma opened it, she found only a single sentence written inside:
“You are invited to the Hollow House. Come see what awaits.”

Her curiosity, as always, got the better of her. A sense of adventure stirred inside her, something that had been dormant for too long. She had grown tired of the ordinary, the mundane existence in a small town where every day seemed the same. She was ready for something… different.

Her best friend, Olivia, had begged her not to go. “Don’t you know what they say about that house? It’s cursed. No one comes back the same—or at all.”

But Emma had shrugged off Olivia’s fears. She wanted to see for herself. The story of the house was the stuff of legend in their town, whispered about in hushed tones. Some said it was abandoned long ago after a family disappeared without a trace. Others spoke of the haunting presence that clung to the house, an oppressive energy that swallowed anyone who dared enter.

But it wasn’t the fear that drew Emma. It was the mystery.

On a crisp autumn evening, with the last traces of sunlight sinking behind the hills, Emma found herself standing before the gates of Hollow House. The air around her felt still, too still, and a strange tension seemed to hum in the air. The road leading to the house was narrow, its surface cracked and uneven, as if nature itself had begun to reclaim it.

The gate was old, made of wrought iron, rusted in places, but still standing firm. It creaked as she pushed it open, the sound of metal grinding against metal sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. She stepped into the yard, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of fallen leaves beneath her boots.

The house loomed ahead, its silhouette dark against the fading light. There were no lights in the windows, no sign of life. But she felt something. A presence. Watching.

She swallowed hard, the letter still clenched in her hand. Come see what awaits.

The front door was ajar, as though inviting her in. Emma hesitated only for a moment, then pushed it open fully. It groaned as it moved, as if reluctant to give way. She stepped inside, the darkness of the foyer swallowing her whole.

The Room

The room beyond the door was unlike anything Emma had expected. It was a study, but the walls were lined with shelves filled not with books, but with old portraits. The faces in the paintings were all staring directly at her, their eyes dark and unnerving. Each portrait seemed to depict a member of the same family, all with the same stern, unreadable expressions.

The furniture in the room was ancient, draped in thick layers of dust, but what caught her attention was the large, ornate desk at the center of the room. A single chair was pushed up against it, and on the desk lay an open ledger.

Emma stepped closer, her curiosity overcoming her fear. She leaned over the desk, brushing her fingers over the pages of the ledger. The writing was old and faded, but one word stood out clearly—Elias.

She glanced around the room again, her unease growing. The door to the study slammed shut behind her with a deafening bang. She spun around, heart racing. She had to get out.

The house seemed to come alive around her. The walls groaned as if the building itself were shifting. The air grew colder, and she heard something—soft, almost imperceptible at first—like the whisper of a voice. But there was no one else in the room.

Emma froze, her eyes darting across the room, searching for the source of the sound. She heard it again, clearer this time. A whisper, just out of reach, but unmistakable. A name.

“Emma…”

Her blood ran cold. She wasn’t alone.

The Unseen

The whispers came again, louder this time, echoing off the walls. They weren’t just a voice—they were multiple voices, layered on top of one another. She couldn’t understand what they were saying, but the tone was unmistakable: warning.

The floor beneath her feet began to tremble, a low, ominous rumble. She backed away from the desk, her breathing shallow. The portraits on the walls seemed to warp, their eyes following her every movement. The air grew thick, pressing in on her, suffocating her. The house was alive, and it was angry.

Emma tried the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Panicked now, she pushed harder, but it remained stuck. She turned back to the room, her flashlight flickering as she heard the whispering grow louder. Emma…

Suddenly, a cold, skeletal hand reached out from behind one of the portraits. Emma screamed and backed away, her pulse racing. The hand seemed to withdraw, pulling back into the painting as if it had never existed. But it wasn’t gone. It was waiting.

From the corner of her eye, she caught movement in the shadowed corners of the room. Something was moving in the darkness, but when she turned to face it, there was nothing there. No one. But the whispers grew louder, more insistent.

“Get out… Get out while you can…”

Emma’s heart raced, her chest tight with fear. She had to escape. Now. With one final desperate push, she shoved against the door. It gave way, slamming open with a force that sent her stumbling backward into the hallway. The whispers ceased abruptly, leaving a deafening silence in their wake.

She didn’t look back. She ran.

The Escape

Emma burst out of the house, her breath ragged, her legs trembling beneath her. She didn’t stop to look at the house as she sprinted down the path, through the gate, and onto the main road. Only when she reached the safety of her car did she dare to look back.

The house stood silent and still against the night sky. The door was open.

But there was no sign of movement. No more whispers. It was as if nothing had happened. The house, it seemed, had swallowed its secrets whole.

Emma sat in the car, gripping the steering wheel, her body shaking. She glanced at the letter still clutched in her hand. It had crumpled slightly, but the message was still there.

“You are invited to the Hollow House. Come see what awaits.”

She had seen enough.