Blackthorn House, an aging, dilapidated home, was located in the heart of the desolate woods. Anyone who even thought about taking a brief glance at it was instantly terrified by its unflattering form against the dusk sky. People from the neighborhood whispered frightening tales about the house as they quietly discussed it.
The reclusive Blackwood family, who formerly owned the estate, is where the tale began. They were rumored to have practiced their glum looks while researching prohibited rituals that conferred magical abilities. As the years went by, their mental clarity faded and the muttering grew louder. It was rumored that the Blackwoods had sought eternal life and had built a deplorable village with genuine shadows as a result.
The walls were covered with images of the long-dead Blackwood family, who's eyes followed her every move. The eyes seemed to sparkle with a special kind of energy that revealed a history filled with twisted desires and provocative insider information. Eliza's heart raced as murmuring echoed in her ears, tempting her to look around, but she resisted the urge.
She walked into a room that was completely dark, save for a single, brilliant flame. It illuminated a worn-out book that was laying on a complex platform. Each word seemed to crawl and move on the pages, which were filled with strange imagery and chants. Eliza began to read aloud, her voice echoing around the room as she ignored the shiver that was starting to run up her spine.
The light was stifled throughout the space by a bone-chilling air. The gloom grew deeper, and a strong presence clung to the atmosphere. The Blackwood family suddenly materialized in front of her, their faces contorted and their voices reduced to silent screams. They moved along at an abnormally rapid pace, pursuing her with their bony hands.
Eliza overreacted and tried to run away, but the hallway had transformed. She was encircled by walls that rose absurdly high. Unusual smiles appeared on the depictions, and the muttering intensified into an ear-splitting maelstrom. She could feel their icy touch on her skin, which diminished her shine and willpower.
The horrible dream was abruptly ended when a brilliant light engulfed the chateau. Eliza eventually found herself outside with the evil influence of the estate gone when she regained her senses. Birdsong signaled a return to calm as the sun rose, giving the impression that the woodland was groaning in need of assistance.
The locals quickly noticed the shift. The forest began to flourish, and the air was no longer thick with fear. The chateau crumbled into ruins in the years that followed, its drab past fading into folklore. Eliza never spoke about that night, but her eerie eyes hinted to the abominations she had encountered.
Blackthorn House evolved into a tale that was told around campfires as a warning of the dangers that lurk beneath the surface of everyday life. Surprisingly, despite the fact that the house was in ruins, it continued to cast a long, eerie shadow over the landscape as a symbol of the hungry desire for power and the darkness that might crush even the bravest spirits.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Ilham Maulana Aziz and writers in Horror and other communities.
A pair of legs
Harry, an 11-year-old boy who lived with his mother in an old house in the countryside. That day, he was walking to the river to fish. He was used to doing that routine because he had been educated by his late father. Harry used a fishing rod to find fish. While waiting, he ate the lunch his mother made for him. He also ate a fruit he picked up on the way. He had never seen the fruit before, but it looked good to eat. He spent the rest of the afternoon with enough fish for him and his mother to eat in the evening.
By Ilham Maulana Aziz2 years ago in Horror
Killing him slowly
There’s an intruder in my house again. He stumbles through the door, wet carrier bags in hand. He’s bought me offerings. I show my appreciation, letting him caress my beautiful body. He wants to touch me. I rub myself against his legs. He sighs, dropping the bags. He can’t resist touching me. Running his hand slowly down my spine, I arch my back towards his caress, let out a low purr. It’s what we both need.
By N J Delmasabout 11 hours ago in Horror
The Zodiac Killer: Randomness as Rehearsal?
California, late 1960s... The country was loud. Televisions glowed late into the night. Radios carried voices across highways and into homes. America was watching itself, war overseas, unrest in the streets, optimism colliding with anxiety in real time. And in that noise, something learned how to whisper.
By Veil of Shadows5 days ago in Horror
Comments