The House That Watches

A House That Shouldn’t Be There

When Anna first saw the house on the edge of Hollow Creek, she thought it looked misplaced - too new, too clean, too perfect among the ruins of old farmhouses long left to rot.

She had just moved to town for her new job at the library. A quiet life was all she wanted. But every morning, as she drove down the winding dirt road, her eyes were drawn to that house: white siding, dark windows, and a red door that always seemed slightly open.

No one in town ever talked about it.

When she asked her neighbor, Mrs. Halvorsen, the woman simply frowned.

“That place doesn’t belong here,” she said. “It never has.”

Anna laughed it off. But soon, laughter wasn’t enough.

A Door That Opened Itself

It started with the mailbox. One morning, she found an envelope with her name scrawled in childlike handwriting - no address, no stamp. Inside, a note read:

“Come back. We’ve missed you.”

She tore it up, assuming it was some kind of prank. But that night, when she passed the house again, the red door was wide open - a square of darkness staring at her.

She slowed her car. For just a moment, she thought she saw movement inside.

A face, pale and fleeting, watching her from the window.

The Neighbors’ Silence

At the diner the next morning, she mentioned it to the locals over coffee.

The chatter fell silent. Forks hovered midair.

Finally, the waitress leaned in.

“That house burned down fifteen years ago. Family of three. No one rebuilt it.”

Anna frowned. “That’s impossible. I drive past it every day.”

The waitress just shook her head. “Then you best stop looking, honey.”

The Memory That Isn’t Hers

That night, Anna couldn’t sleep. The more she tried to forget, the more the image of that house pressed behind her eyes.

She dreamed of standing in its doorway - barefoot, her hands covered in soot, the air thick with smoke. She could hear a child crying somewhere upstairs. A voice whispered from behind her:

“You shouldn’t have left us.”

She woke up gasping, her sheets damp with sweat, the scent of smoke clinging to her hair.

When she looked out her window, the house was there — but closer. Somehow closer.

Inside the House

By the next evening, she couldn’t resist. She parked by the edge of the woods and walked toward the red door. Every step felt heavier than the last, as if the earth itself tried to pull her back.

The door creaked open without her touching it. Inside, everything looked... lived in.

Children’s drawings on the fridge. Warm light flickering from the fireplace. A faint lullaby drifting down the hallway.

Then she saw the photographs - dozens of them, lining the mantelpiece.

In every picture: the same house, the same family... and her.

Her smile. Her face. Holding a child she didn’t recognize.

The air turned cold. The lullaby stopped.

From the corner of the room, something whispered,

“You remember now, don’t you?”

What the Town Knew

The next morning, her car sat empty on the roadside. No footprints led away.

When Sheriff McAdams arrived, he found her phone still recording on the dashboard. The video showed the red door - open one moment, closed the next - and then static.

The house was gone. Only an empty field remained, burned and blackened, as if something had been there long ago.

Mrs. Halvorsen cried when she heard. “That poor girl,” she said softly. “Just like the last one.”

Hollow Creek Today

The locals don’t talk much about Hollow Creek anymore. The old dirt road has grown over, swallowed by weeds.

But sometimes, on foggy mornings, drivers claim they see a flicker of white siding and a red door through the trees.

And if you slow down - just enough - you might notice someone standing at the window, watching, waiting.

And maybe, if you’re not careful, the house will remember you too.