Prologue

-
 The fog rolled in thick and heavy over Black Hollow, swallowing the moonlight and muffling the distant sound of waves crashing against the cliffs. The house on the hill had stood for nearly two centuries, its stone walls weathered by time and its halls echoing with stories no one dared to tell. But on this night, something moved within its dark corridors. A whisper. A breath. A presence waiting to be remembered.  
Post a Comment

Chapter Two: Echoes in the Dark

-

 By the third night, Eleanor could no longer deny the house was... watching her.  


The lights flickered despite new bulbs. Footsteps echoed in the hallway when she was alone. And at precisely 3:13 AM, the whispers began. They seeped through the walls, carried by the draft, soft and insistent. Sometimes, she could make out words. Other times, they were only murmurs of something long forgotten.  


She tried to sleep. But then came the knocking.  


Three soft taps at her bedroom door.  


She froze, staring at the dark outline of the doorframe.  


It had to be the wind. Or the old house settling.  


The knocking came again.  


Heart pounding, Eleanor rose, her hand trembling as she gripped the handle. She pulled the door open


Nothing. Just the dark hallway stretching into the shadows.  


But as she stood there, the whisper came again.  


"You shouldn’t have come back."

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Chapter Eight: The Escape

-
 Eleanor’s heart races as she clutches the key, the presence behind her growing stronger. The attic feels alive with tension, as if the walls themselves are closing in. She can almost hear the low hum of something ancient and malevolent in the air, the feeling of being trapped not just in the house—but in time itself.   She shoves the papers and the key into her bag, her mind screaming to get out. The door to the attic rattles as if someone—or something—wants to keep her in. She bolts for the stairs, her footsteps heavy as she hurries down the narrow hall. But as she nears the front door, the whispers return, louder than ever:   "Leave. Or you’ll never leave."   The door won’t open. The handle turns, but the lock won’t budge. She pulls harder, her fingers slick with sweat. The air around her thickens, and she feels an invisible pressure on her chest, as if the house itself is trying to suffocate her.   With a scream, Eleanor stumbles backward...
Read more

Chapter One: The House on Black Hollow Hill

-
 When Eleanor Graves inherited the house from her estranged great-aunt, she barely remembered ever visiting it. She had been a child the last time she stepped foot inside. The town’s stories about the house had always sounded like superstitious nonsense—ghostly figures in the windows, doors that locked themselves, and the eerie sound of weeping in the dead of night.   But Eleanor wasn’t afraid of ghosts.   She arrived in the late afternoon, the autumn wind sharp against her face as she stepped out of her car. The house loomed above her, a gray giant against the storm-heavy sky. The front door creaked open with an unsettling slowness as she turned the key. Dust motes danced in the dying light, and a faint scent of something decayed lingered in the air.   She told herself it was just an old house.   Then the whisper came.   Low, almost melodic, just behind her.   "Leave." Eleanor spun around. No one was there.
Read more

Chapter Five: The Writing on the Walls

-
 After discovering Margaret’s portraits in the locked room, Eleanor feels a shift in the house. The whispers grow stronger, the shadows seem to move on their own, and objects appear where they shouldn’t be.   One night, she wakes to the sound of scratching. A slow, deliberate movement coming from inside the walls.   Terrified but determined, she follows the sound to the parlor. The old wallpaper peels at the edges, and beneath it, she finds something chilling—words scrawled in faded ink:   "He took everything. Find me before he finds you." Before Eleanor can process the message, the candle flickers wildly, and the room goes cold. A shape appears in the mirror—Margaret Vale, her face half-obscured by shadow.   Then, just as suddenly, the whisper comes again, this time urgent.   "He’s still here." Then, the light flickers, and the temperature drops. A presence looms behind her, casting a long shadow against the parlor wall.
Read more