The House That Calls

The sun was setting, casting an eerie orange glow over the dilapidated mansion that stood at the edge of town. For years, no one had dared to enter it, not since the Johnson family vanished without a trace twenty years ago. Local legends spoke of strange sounds—whispers in the wind, doors creaking open on their own, and the faint sound of children laughing when no one was there. But for Alex, an aspiring journalist with a thirst for the macabre, the house was an opportunity too good to pass up.

Armed with a flashlight, a notebook, and a stubborn resolve, Alex stepped onto the overgrown path leading to the house. The air grew colder with each step, as if the house itself was leeching warmth from the world around it. By the time they reached the front door, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving them bathed in twilight.

The door groaned open with a single push, revealing a grand but decaying foyer. A massive chandelier hung precariously from the ceiling, its crystals catching the faint light of Alex’s flashlight. Dust coated every surface, and cobwebs stretched across the corners like the remnants of a forgotten web. The smell of mildew and rot filled the air.

“Just a house,” Alex muttered, though their voice wavered. They stepped inside, the door creaking shut behind them. The sound echoed through the house like a final warning.

As Alex explored, they recorded notes about the layout: the grand staircase, the parlor with its once-beautiful piano, and the dining room where plates still sat on the table as if waiting for a family that would never return. But the deeper they ventured, the more unsettling the atmosphere became. The whispers started softly, just on the edge of hearing.

“Get out…”

Alex froze. The voice was faint, almost like the wind, but unmistakably human. “Hello?” they called, their voice bouncing off the empty walls. There was no response.

Shaking it off as nerves, Alex pressed on, finding themselves in what appeared to be the children’s room. Faded wallpaper decorated with cartoon animals peeled from the walls, and a rocking horse sat in the corner, still and silent. On the bed lay a single, dusty doll with a cracked porcelain face. As Alex approached, the rocking horse began to move, creaking back and forth on its own.

Fear prickled at the back of their neck. They backed away, their flashlight beam trembling. Then, from the hallway, came the sound of footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, and coming closer.

Alex spun around, shining the flashlight into the hallway, but it revealed nothing. The footsteps stopped, replaced by a low, guttural growl. Panic set in, and Alex stumbled back, knocking over a small table. The crash echoed through the house, and suddenly, all the doors slammed shut at once, the sound reverberating like a thunderclap.

“Who’s there?” Alex shouted, their voice cracking. The whispers grew louder, overlapping into an incomprehensible cacophony. The growling returned, this time from behind them. Spinning around, Alex came face-to-face with a shadowy figure standing in the doorway. Its form was humanoid but wrong—its limbs too long, its face obscured by darkness except for two pinpricks of glowing red light where eyes should be.

The figure lunged, and Alex bolted, running blindly through the house. The walls seemed to close in, the hallways twisting and stretching in impossible ways. Doors that should have led back to the foyer instead opened into rooms Alex had never seen before. They were trapped.

In their panic, Alex stumbled into a basement they hadn’t noticed earlier. The air was thick and damp, and the faint sound of dripping water echoed in the darkness. The flashlight flickered and died, plunging them into pitch blackness.

“No, no, no,” Alex muttered, slapping the flashlight in desperation. It sputtered back to life just long enough to illuminate the basement walls, which were covered in jagged, claw-like marks. In the center of the room was a makeshift altar, and on it lay photographs of the Johnson family, their faces scratched out.

A sudden scream erupted from the shadows, deafening and unearthly. Alex dropped the flashlight, its beam spinning wildly as it hit the ground. The red-eyed figure emerged from the darkness, moving with unnatural speed. It didn’t walk so much as glide, its movements jerky and inhuman.

Alex scrambled backward, their hands finding a shard of broken wood on the ground. As the creature lunged, they swung wildly, the shard connecting with a sickening squelch. The figure recoiled, emitting a guttural roar that shook the very foundation of the house. Seizing the moment, Alex sprinted up the stairs, their legs burning as they pushed forward.

They reached the front door, but it wouldn’t budge. Desperate, Alex threw their weight against it, slamming their fists until the wood splintered. Behind them, the growling grew louder, accompanied by the sound of heavy, scraping footsteps. With one final shove, the door flew open, and Alex tumbled outside into the cold night air.

The house seemed to shudder, as if angry at their escape. Alex didn’t stop running until they were back in town, their lungs burning and their heart pounding. When they finally looked back, the house was barely visible in the distance, its windows glowing faintly with an ominous red light.

Days later, Alex’s editor found them sitting in their apartment, pale and trembling, unable to speak about what had happened. The story they had hoped to uncover remained locked within the walls of the cursed house, and Alex knew they would never return.

But the house wasn’t finished with them. Late at night, as Alex lay in bed, they heard it: a faint whisper, carrying through the still air.

“Come back…”