The house had been abandoned for nearly three decades. Hidden in the thick woods of Hollow Creek, it stood like a decaying corpse—its once grand structure now a skeleton of broken windows, collapsed ceilings, and ivy creeping into its very bones. Local legends spoke of the house with unease. People whispered about the family that had vanished overnight, their fate unknown, and the peculiar incidents that befell those who dared trespass.
Ethan had heard the stories growing up, but he wasn’t one to believe in ghost tales. A journalist with a keen eye for uncovering the truth behind urban legends, he had written about haunted places before, always managing to find a logical explanation. When he received an anonymous tip about Hollow Creek Manor and its dark history, he saw it as another opportunity to debunk a myth. With his camera, recorder, and a flashlight, he ventured into the house, determined to uncover the reality behind the rumors.
The front door creaked open with surprising ease, almost as if it had been expecting him. Dust motes swirled in the air, catching the dim light that filtered through the cracks. The scent of decay and something older—something sour—hung thick in the air. Ethan pressed on, his footsteps echoing eerily in the silence.
He explored the rooms, each one more dilapidated than the last. The furniture was overturned, personal belongings scattered as if the residents had left in a hurry. He recorded everything, noting that while the atmosphere was unsettling, nothing seemed supernatural. He almost felt disappointed.
Then he found the door.
It was in the farthest part of the house, past a corridor that didn’t appear on the blueprints he had studied. The door itself was unremarkable—wooden, unpolished, with a rusted handle—but the moment Ethan laid eyes on it, a shiver ran down his spine. He turned the knob. It was locked.
His heart pounded as he searched for something to force it open. There was no reason for him to be so uneasy—yet his hands shook as he found a crowbar among the debris. With a deep breath, he wedged it into the doorframe and pushed. The wood groaned before giving way with a sharp crack.
Darkness yawned beyond the threshold. His flashlight flickered as he stepped inside, revealing an untouched bedroom. The air was heavy, thick with a scent unlike anything in the rest of the house. A child's bed sat against the wall, pristine, the sheets smooth as if freshly made. A collection of dolls lined a shelf, their glass eyes reflecting his light.
Ethan stepped forward, and the floorboards groaned under his weight. A framed picture on the nightstand caught his eye. It was a family portrait—a man, a woman, and a little girl no older than six. They all had wide smiles, but their eyes… something about them felt wrong. He lifted the frame, wiping away the dust, and his stomach clenched.
The little girl's face had been scratched out.
A sound behind him made his blood turn cold. A soft creak, like someone shifting their weight. His breath hitched. Slowly, he turned his head.
One of the dolls had fallen from the shelf.
Ethan exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Just his nerves. He picked up the doll and placed it back—but the moment his fingers brushed against its porcelain skin, an icy chill spread through his arm. He yanked his hand back, the flashlight trembling in his grasp.
Then he heard it.
A whisper. Soft. Barely there.
"Why did you wake me up?"
Every hair on his body stood on end. He spun around, shining his light in every direction. The room was empty. The door behind him… was closed.
He hadn’t closed it.
His breathing grew erratic as he backed toward the door, fingers fumbling for the handle. It wouldn’t budge. His pulse pounded in his ears. Then, from the darkness, another whisper.
"You shouldn’t be here."
A child's giggle followed, light and airy, but something about it was… wrong. It wasn’t playful. It was knowing.
The flashlight flickered violently before dying completely, plunging the room into utter darkness. Ethan’s breath came in short gasps as he banged on the door, adrenaline surging through his veins. Then, something cold brushed against his back.
He froze.
A small hand.
The scream lodged in his throat as icy fingers wrapped around his wrist, pulling. He yanked away, scrambling in the pitch-black room, his hands desperately searching for an exit. And then, the whispers became a chorus.
"Stay with me. Stay forever."
A wave of nausea hit him as the air thickened, pressing in on him. The walls felt like they were closing in, the whispers now an unbearable cacophony. And then, just as suddenly as it started, silence fell.
The door creaked open on its own.
Ethan didn’t hesitate. He bolted, crashing through the house, ignoring the way the shadows seemed to twist and reach for him. He didn’t stop running until he was outside, gasping for breath, his heart threatening to burst from his chest.
He never spoke of what happened in that room. He left his career as a journalist, abandoned his search for the truth behind haunted places. But at night, when the house was nothing but a distant nightmare, he would wake to the feeling of a small, cold hand resting on his chest.
And a whisper in his ear.
"You woke me up. Now I will never let you go."
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