House without windows

I first noticed the house during my second week in town. It sat at the end of Weaver Lane, hunched between two abandoned lots like it was trying to disappear. Most people didn’t talk about it. When I asked the old woman who ran the bakery, she just muttered, "Best not to go poking around where you’re not wanted."

The thing that struck me wasn’t the peeling paint or the sagging porch—it was that there were no windows.

Not boarded up.

Not shattered.

None.

Just blank walls staring back at the world.

I told myself it was curiosity that made me walk there one evening, but deep down, I think it was something else. A pull I couldn’t explain, like the house had been waiting for me.

As I approached, the air grew colder. The grass was brittle underfoot, and the mailbox hung open, its rusted hinge creaking softly in the wind. I circled the building once, running my hand along the splintered wood. No breaks, no cracks—just seamless, empty walls.

There was a door, though.

Plain oak, slightly ajar.

Against every good instinct I had, I pushed it open and stepped inside.

The interior was...wrong.

The air was stale, thick with the scent of mildew and something sweet and rotting. Faint light leaked from cracks between the floorboards, but there were no lamps, no bulbs, no obvious source.

The layout made no sense—narrow hallways twisting into each other, rooms looping back where they shouldn't, staircases that led nowhere. It felt more like a maze than a house.

I wandered, calling out now and then, half-hoping someone would answer, half-dreading that someone might. My footsteps echoed strangely, as if the walls were absorbing sound and breathing it back in a beat too late.

In one room, I found a table set for dinner. Plates, forks, a bottle of wine half full—but the dust on everything was an inch thick, untouched for years.

In another, a child’s bedroom, toys scattered on the floor.

One of the dolls looked up at me with blank, glassy eyes.

I swear it smiled when I turned away.

The deeper I went, the less sure I became of how long I’d been inside. Time seemed...slippery. My watch had stopped. My phone showed no signal.

Eventually, I found a door unlike the others—heavy, made of dark metal, cold to the touch. No handle, just a small keyhole at eye level.

From the other side, I heard something.

A faint scratching.

A whisper, maybe, so soft I couldn’t make out the words.

I pressed my ear closer.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then—three sharp knocks, right against the door, so loud they rattled the hinges.

I stumbled back, heart in my throat.

The knocks came again, slower this time, as if whatever was on the other side was getting impatient.

Without thinking, I ran. Through the twisting halls, down collapsing stairs, past the staring doll and the rotting feast. The house seemed to shift as I moved, trying to lead me deeper, trying to make me stay.

When I finally burst out into the night air, gasping, the door slammed shut behind me with a deafening finality.

I didn’t stop running until I reached the main road, the house shrinking into a dark blur behind me.

I never found Weaver Lane again.

It doesn’t show up on any map.

Locals pretend they don’t know what I’m talking about.

But sometimes, late at night, I swear I can hear it—

those three slow knocks, somewhere just beyond my apartment door.

Waiting.

🕯️ Thank you for wandering through this story with me.

If it kept you on the edge of your seat, feel free to leave a ❤️, share your thoughts below, or simply pass it along to a fellow horror lover.

Until we meet again in the shadows… 🌒