The house on Marrow Lane

The house on Marrow Lane had been empty for thirty years. Ivy strangled the porch posts, windows were webbed with grime, and mail had long since stopped coming. Nobody talked about it—except for Ben, who swore he saw a light flicker in the attic once. Ever since he saw it, he never acted normal again.

On a dare, I agreed to go in.

Friday night, I climbed the creaky fence, flashlight tucked in my hoodie, and pushed open the door. It was unlocked.

The air inside was stale, like a sealed tomb. Dust floated in the light beam as I stepped past the threshold. Furniture remained—sofa sagging, books still on shelves. It was like the owners had left in a hurry.

“Thirty minutes,” I whispered. “Then I’m out.”

The floorboards groaned as I moved through the house. The kitchen was lined with old photographs—smiling kids, a birthday cake, a family in matching sweaters. Their eyes felt like they followed me.

I found the stairs and climbed them, the air growing colder with each step. At the top, a hallway stretched into darkness. The attic door was at the far end.

A rhythmic creaking sound echoed through the house.

“Maybe wind,” I told myself. But there was no wind.

I reached the attic, pulled the cord, and the door groaned open. A ladder extended down, trembling. My flashlight flickered once, then steadied.

I climbed up

The attic was empty, except for a single trunk in the middle. I approached, heart pounding, and flipped the latch.

Inside were newspaper clippings, each yellowed and brittle. I picked one up. “Family of Four Vanishes Without a Trace – 1995.”

Another: “Local Father Accused of Cult Activity Before Disappearance.”

Another: “Neighbours Report Strange Chanting and Lights.”

Suddenly, the trunk lid slammed shut.

I jumped back, nearly tripping. A soft humming filled the air.

Then came a voice, behind me. “They never left.”

I spun. A child stood there—pale, translucent, eyes wide. “We were waiting.”

I bolted down the ladder, into the hallway, but now it stretched longer than before, impossibly long. The house was shifting.

Doors slammed open and shut. Whispering surrounded me.

I ran, blindly, stumbling down the stairs, across the living room. The front door was gone—just a solid wall.

A mirror hung where it had been.

In that mirror, I saw four figures: a mother, a father, a boy, and a girl—the same family from the photographs—standing behind me.

Only… I wasn’t there.

I turned around.

No one.

I looked again—just the family. And the boy… he looked exactly like me.

My flashlight shattered on the floor. Darkness swallowed the room.

When I woke, it was morning. I was lying on the front lawn, the house still and lifeless.

I rushed home, breathless. My mother stared at me, puzzled.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“M-Mum?”

She stepped back. “Who are you?”

I turned to the hallway mirror.

I wasn’t there.

Not a reflection. Not a shadow.

Nothing.

Because I never left.