The house on Willow Lane had been empty for years. No one in the small town knew who owned it or why it had been abandoned, but everyone had heard the stories. The ones about the family that vanished overnight, leaving everything behind as if they had simply walked out the door and never returned. The ones about the strange lights that flickered in the windows late at night, even though the power had been cut off long ago. The ones about the figures people claimed to see standing in the windows, staring out at the street below.
But those were just stories. At least, that’s what I told myself as I stood on the front porch, the key to the house clutched tightly in my hand. The wind was eerily still, the trees that lined the street silent as if holding their breath. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of decaying leaves and something else, something acrid and sour that made my stomach turn.
I hesitated, my hand trembling as I reached for the doorknob. I wasn’t sure why I had agreed to this. Maybe it was the thrill of doing something forbidden, the lure of the unknown. Or maybe it was because of her—the girl who had dared me to come here, the one with the icy blue eyes and the smile that never quite reached them.
The door creaked open, and I stepped inside, the sound echoing through the empty halls. The air inside was stifling, thick with the smell of dust and mildew. The walls were lined with old wallpaper, peeling and faded, revealing the rotten wood beneath. The floorboards groaned underfoot as I made my way down the hall, the darkness pressing in on me from all sides.
I found myself drawn to the living room, where a massive fireplace dominated the room. The hearth was cold, long abandoned, but the ashes that lay within it looked fresh, as if they had been disturbed recently. I knelt down, brushing the ashes aside with my fingers, revealing something buried beneath them—a small, leather-bound book.
I picked it up, the leather smooth and cool against my skin. The pages were yellowed with age, the ink faded, but I could still make out the words written in a careful, flowing script. It was a journal, filled with entries that spoke of strange occurrences, of shadows that moved on their own, of voices that whispered in the dead of night.
The last entry was dated the day the family had disappeared. It was short, a single sentence scrawled hastily across the page: We are not alone.
A chill ran down my spine as the room suddenly felt colder, the air thickening around me. I looked up, and that’s when I saw it—a figure standing in the doorway, shrouded in darkness. It was tall, its face hidden in shadow, but I could feel its eyes on me, watching, waiting.
I tried to move, to run, but my legs wouldn’t respond. The figure stepped closer, and as it did, the shadows seemed to writhe and twist around it, taking on shapes that made my stomach churn. The air was thick with the stench of decay, of something long dead and rotting, and I could hear the soft sound of whispering, like the rustle of dry leaves in the wind.
The figure stopped just in front of me, its presence overwhelming, suffocating. I could feel the cold radiating off of it, seeping into my bones. It reached out a hand, its fingers long and thin, the nails sharp and blackened.
“Who are you?” I managed to choke out, my voice barely a whisper.
The figure tilted its head, as if considering my question, and then it spoke, its voice low and guttural, like the sound of earth being turned over in a grave. “We are many.”
The lights flickered and went out, plunging the room into total darkness. I could feel it moving closer, could hear the whispering growing louder, more frantic, like a thousand voices all speaking at once. The air was so thick I could hardly breathe, my chest tight with fear.
I stumbled back, my hands scrambling for the door, but it was too late. The shadows closed in around me, the cold, lifeless hands pulling me into the darkness. The last thing I heard before the world went black was the sound of that voice, whispering in my ear: “You belong to us now.”
