The Dead

The sky was gray that morning. The wind whispered through the trees like a voice trying to speak. The town was quiet, too quiet. No children played outside. No cars passed by. Even the birds seemed to be gone.

I stood at the gate of the old house at the end of Maple Street. Everyone called it the haunted house. Some said it was just a rumor. Others swore they had seen things—dark shapes moving behind the curtains, lights turning on at night when no one was there. But most people just stayed away.

Not me. I had to know.I was 17 and too curious for my own good.

My name is Lily. I lived in this town my whole life, and I had always heard the stories about that house. People said it was cursed. They said “the dead” lived there.

I didn’t believe in ghosts. Not until that day.

I pushed open the rusty gate. It creaked loudly. I paused, heart pounding, but nothing happened. The house looked old but still strong. Its paint was peeling, windows dusty. The front door was closed, but not locked.

I took a deep breath and stepped inside.

The smell hit me first—dust, old wood, and something else. Something sharp and cold, like metal and smoke. I wrinkled my nose and walked forward. The floorboards creaked under my feet.

The hallway was long and dark. Faded pictures hung on the walls. I looked closer. The faces in the pictures were old, from maybe a hundred years ago. Some of the people smiled. Others looked serious. One photo caught my eye—a little girl with long black hair and eyes that seemed too dark, too deep. I looked away quickly.

As I walked through the house, I felt something strange. It was like I wasn’t alone. I kept turning around, sure I would see someone. But no one was there.

In the living room, the furniture was covered with white sheets. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling. A clock on the wall had stopped ticking. Time itself felt frozen.

I found the stairs and climbed up slowly. Each step groaned like it was in pain. At the top, there was a long hallway with doors on both sides. I opened the first door.

A bedroom. Small, with a bed, a chair, and a mirror. Dust lay thick on everything. I stepped inside. The mirror was cracked, but I could still see my reflection.

Then I saw something behind me.

A figure.

I spun around. Nothing. The room was empty. I looked back at the mirror. No figure.

Was I seeing things?

I left the room quickly and opened the next door. Another bedroom. This one was bigger. The bed had no sheets. The window was broken. On the wall, someone had written something in black paint:

“The dead are not silent.”

My heart raced. I stepped closer. The writing was old, but still clear. Who had written that? And what did it mean?

Suddenly, I heard it—a soft sound, like a whisper. I turned. Nothing. The whisper came again, this time from the hallway.

I stepped out.

The hallway was darker than before. Cold air wrapped around me like fingers. I saw movement at the end of the hall.

A person.

No—a shadow.

It didn’t walk. It floated. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t move.

The shadow came closer. It had no face, just darkness. I could feel it watching me.

Then, a voice.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

It wasn’t loud. It was soft, almost kind. But it sent chills through me.

“Who are you?” I asked.

The shadow didn’t answer. It pointed to the door behind me.

I turned and opened it.

The room inside was empty. No bed, no furniture. Just a small box in the middle of the floor.

I walked over and picked it up. It was wooden, carved with strange symbols. I opened it slowly.

Inside was a letter.

It was old, the paper yellow and brittle. I unfolded it carefully.

The letter said:

“To whoever finds this—

We are still here. The town forgot us, but we remember. We remember the fire. We remember the screams. We remember being left to die. This house is our home now. We cannot leave.

Do not stay. Do not listen. The dead are angry.”

I stared at the letter. Fire? Screams? What had happened here?

I heard footsteps behind me. I turned.

The little girl from the photo was standing there. Her dress was torn. Her eyes were dark and deep, just like in the picture.

She said nothing. Just looked at me.

Then she raised her hand and pointed to the window.

I walked over and looked out. The town looked the same. But the sky was darker now. The clouds swirled.

Behind me, the girl whispered, “They’re coming.”

I turned, but she was gone.

Then the whispering started again. All around me. Too many voices to count. Some cried. Some screamed. Some laughed.

The walls shook. The house groaned.

I ran.

Down the stairs, through the hall, past the pictures. The faces seemed to follow me with their eyes. I reached the door and pulled it open.

Outside, the sky was almost black. The wind howled.

I ran home without stopping.

I never told anyone what I saw. But I didn’t go back.

Weeks later, the house burned down. No one knew how it started. Some said it was lightning. Others blamed kids playing with fire.

But I knew better.

I still hear the whispers at night sometimes. I dream of the little girl, standing at the window, watching.

And I remember the words:

“The dead are not silent.”