The House at the Edge of the Woods

I didn’t expect anyone to answer when I knocked on the door of the old house. It had been empty for as long as I could remember, the roof sagging, the porch half-rotted through. My friends dared me to go up, but they didn’t follow.

I told myself it was just for fun. Prove I wasn’t scared.

But my heart was pounding.

I raised my hand, knocked twice, and waited.

Nothing.

Wind sighed through the trees, carrying the damp scent of moss and fallen leaves. I turned to yell that it was empty—but then the door creaked open on its own.

I froze.

“Hello?” I called, voice cracking.

The others laughed from the tree line. “Go in!”

I swallowed hard.

Inside, the house was dim, but not completely dark. Shafts of late-afternoon light cut through broken windows. Dust danced in the beams like tiny spirits.

My shoes scraped over warped floorboards. I could hear the echo of every step.

I thought of stories I’d heard about this place. The old man who used to live here, gone missing. Screams in the night, they said. Kids at my school said it was haunted.

But as my eyes adjusted, I just saw an old, ruined home.

Then I heard a noise.

A shuffling. Soft.

“Hello?” I said again, my voice smaller.

Silence.

I told myself it was just an animal. Maybe a raccoon. Maybe a bird trapped inside.

But curiosity got the better of me. I crept forward, past a living room with a caved-in ceiling, into a narrow hallway lined with peeling wallpaper. At the end of it was a closed door.

The noise came again.

Shhh-shhh.

I put my hand on the knob. Cold.

My heart was in my throat.

I turned it.

The door swung inward with a soft sigh.

Inside was a small bedroom. It was oddly intact compared to the rest of the house. There was an old iron bed frame, still made up with a thin blanket. A dresser with a cracked mirror.

And in the corner, someone was sitting in a chair.

I jumped back with a gasp.

It was an old woman.

Her hair was long, white, tangled. Her eyes were open, milky with cataracts. She didn’t seem to see me.

But she spoke.

“You’re late,” she said, voice raspy.

I didn’t know what to say.

“Um—sorry,” I stammered.

She didn’t react. Just kept staring straight ahead.

“I waited so long,” she murmured. “But you didn’t come.”

I took a step back.

“Look,” I said, “I didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll go.”

She turned her head sharply toward the sound of my voice.

“Don’t go.”

Her voice was suddenly pleading.

My mouth went dry.

“I—I have to—”

“Please.”

I hesitated at the door. My friends were probably outside wondering why I hadn’t run back screaming.

“Who are you?” I asked.

Her lips trembled.

“I’m waiting for my son,” she whispered.

That made me pause.

“Your son?”

She nodded, slow and shaky.

“He promised he’d come back. He promised he wouldn’t leave me here.”

Her eyes glistened with tears.

Something about her voice made my chest tighten.

“Ma’am,” I said softly, “I don’t think he’s coming back.”

A sob broke out of her. She clutched her arms around herself, rocking.

I felt terrible.

I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.

I stepped inside again. The floor creaked under my weight. She flinched at the sound.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She didn’t answer, just cried.

I looked around the room, trying to figure out what to do. It smelled of mildew and something older, sadder.

“Do you want me to help you outside?” I asked.

She shook her head violently.

“They’ll see me,” she hissed.

“Who?”

She didn’t answer.

I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck.

Outside, my friends shouted my name.

“I—I have to go,” I said.

“Don’t leave me,” she pleaded again, voice breaking.

I hesitated, tears stinging my own eyes.

But then I ran.

I don’t remember leaving the house. I don’t remember getting off the porch. I only remember bursting through the trees, my friends screaming when they saw my face.

They called me a wuss, but they looked scared too.

We ran all the way back to town.

I never went back.

But I thought about her.

Years later, when I was older, I asked around.

No one remembered an old woman living there. Just the old man who went missing.

I broke into the town archives.

Found a newspaper clipping.

Local Man Found Dead in Home.

But in the small print: “Survived by his wife, who was never found.”

I don’t tell this story much.

People roll their eyes. They say I was imagining things.

But sometimes I dream of that room. Of her rocking in the chair, waiting.

Of her saying:

“Don’t go.”

And every time I wake up, I feel like I should go back.

Just to keep my promise.

[END]