The House on Waverly Lane

Everyone in Maplewood knew about the house on Waverly Lane. The one with the broken shutters, ivy-choked walls, and a porch swing that creaked even when there was no wind. Children dared each other to knock on the door. Teenagers whispered ghost stories about the woman who once lived there a widow, a witch, a murderer. No one really knew.

Except maybe Lila.

She hadn’t planned on coming back. After ten years in the city, she thought she’d escaped Maplewood forever. But when her mother passed and left her the old bakery on Main Street, duty called. Lila returned with nothing but a suitcase and a heart full of mixed emotions.

The town hadn’t changed much. The bakery still smelled of sugar and warm bread. Mrs. Kettle still gossiped on the same bench. And Waverly Lane still sat at the edge of town like a forgotten sentence at the end of a letter.

Every evening after closing up the bakery, Lila walked past that house. She couldn’t help it. It was on her way home, and besides something about it pulled her in. She would slow her steps, eyes lingering on the cracked windows and crooked mailbox. And sometimes she wasn’t sure she thought she saw someone watching from the upstairs window.

Then came the rainy night that changed everything.

She hadn’t meant to stop, but the gate was open. For years it had stayed shut with rusted chains and cautionary tales. Now, it hung slightly ajar, as if inviting her in. Something inside her stirred curiosity, maybe, or something older, deeper.

She stepped through.

The yard was wild with weeds. Vines twisted up the walls like green veins, and puddles reflected a sky swollen with clouds. She climbed the porch steps slowly. The swing moved, gently, as if rocked by an invisible hand.

Her knuckles rapped against the door. “Hello?” she called.

No answer.

The door creaked open.

The air inside was still, heavy with the scent of lavender and time. Furniture was covered in white sheets, casting ghostly shapes. Cobwebs hung like forgotten lace in the corners. Lila stepped cautiously into the hallway, her boots echoing softly on old floorboards.

Then she saw it a photo above the fireplace. Dusty and crooked, but unmistakable. A black-and-white portrait of a woman standing proudly in front of the very same house. Her eyes were dark, piercing. Something about them made Lila’s stomach twist.

She reached out, brushing dust from the frame.

“Lila,” someone whispered.

She spun around. No one.

Her pulse quickened. “Is anyone here?”

Silence.

She should have left. But something drew her forward.

The study door was open, revealing a desk strewn with yellowed papers. And a candle lit.

Lila froze.

She moved closer. Among the papers was a letter. Her name was written on the envelope in her grandmother’s handwriting.

“Dear Lila,” it began.
“If you are reading this, then the house has chosen you too…”

The letter spoke of strange dreams, memories that didn’t belong to her grandmother, visions of lives she never lived. The house, it claimed, was alive in its own way. It remembered. It reflected. It trapped.

Lila’s hands shook. This had to be a prank. Some elaborate trick.

Then she saw her.

A woman stood in the doorway tall, silent, eyes as deep and dark as the ones in the photo. Not a ghost, not quite alive. Something in-between.

“You came back,” the woman said softly.

“Who are you?” Lila asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m what remains. Of her. Of us. Of the truth.”

“What truth?”

The woman walked closer. With each step, the room seemed to grow darker, as though the house itself was listening.

“You’ve felt it,” she said. “The dreams. The pull. You thought they were yours, but they weren’t. They were the house’s.”

“I don’t understand…”

“The house remembers everyone who’s lived here. Everyone who’s died here. It shares their memories. It gives them to the next. And now it’s your turn.”

Lila stepped back. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“No one ever does,” the woman said. “But the house sees something in you.”

The candle flickered wildly. The papers on the desk fluttered, as if caught in a breeze that wasn’t there.

Suddenly, Lila saw flashes images in her mind. A girl running through the yard, laughter echoing. A man arguing with a woman in the kitchen. Blood on the stairs. A secret room beneath the floorboards.

She gasped, clutching her head.

The woman’s voice softened. “It’s overwhelming at first. But you’ll learn. The house will teach you.”

“I don’t want to learn!” Lila cried. “I just want to go home.”

“You are home,” the woman whispered.



Lila woke the next morning in her bed, drenched in sweat. Her heart pounded. Had it all been a dream?

But when she sat up, she saw it the letter, resting on her nightstand.

And on her palm, a faint mark. The same symbol she’d seen carved into the desk in the study.

She looked out the window toward Waverly Lane.

The house stood still. Watching. Waiting.

Author’s Note:
The House on Waverly Lane was inspired by the idea that places, like people, carry memories. Some we build, some we inherit and some we are chosen to relive. It explores the thin line between the past and the present, between memory and haunting.