Silent Screams

The clock struck midnight on Halloween night, and the town of Gray Hollow was thick with fog. It was the kind of night where shadows seemed to stretch and breathe, the chill in the air stinging like a thousand needles. The old folk whispered that on Halloween, something sinister lurked in Gray Hollow. But this year, it felt different—charged, as though the town itself was holding its breath.

Up on Thornhill Road stood the Witherby Manor, an ancient house that no one had dared to live in for over fifty years. The house had a grim history; tales of disappearances, strange lights, and unsettling noises kept it sealed off and abandoned. It sat at the edge of the town, an imposing figure against the night, with windows that resembled dead eyes staring down on passersby. Its towering, dilapidated frame gave an unsettling impression that it was leaning toward you, as if it could swallow you whole.

Four teenagers—James, Lucy, Ben, and Sarah—had gathered outside the manor that night, each one trying to mask their fear with bravado. They were locals, all high school friends who had grown up listening to the stories about Witherby Manor. But they'd heard another rumor: there was a hidden room somewhere inside, a place said to hold secrets that no one had ever lived to tell. The teenagers dared each other to go inside and see for themselves.

“Come on, it’s just an old house,” James said, forcing a laugh. “If there’s anything in there, it’s probably just mice or broken furniture.”

But no one answered him. The others looked up at the house, the fog swirling thickly around it. Shadows shifted in the windows, and every once in a while, they could swear they saw a faint flicker of light inside, as though someone—or something—was watching.

Finally, Ben spoke. “Let’s just do this and get it over with.”

They pushed open the heavy, creaking gate and made their way up the overgrown path. As they stepped onto the porch, Lucy froze, feeling a sharp, icy breeze around her neck. She turned around, but no one was behind her. The feeling lingered, almost like a hand pressing down on her shoulder, but she brushed it off and kept going.

James took the lead, pulling open the rotting wooden door that groaned in protest. The air inside was stale, thick with the smell of dust and decay. They entered the grand foyer, where a chandelier hung precariously above them, covered in cobwebs that glistened in the faint moonlight seeping through the windows. The walls were lined with portraits, their eyes seeming to follow the group’s every move. They had an almost lifelike quality, the expressions etched in paint hinting at something between anguish and malevolence.

“Where’s the hidden room supposed to be?” Sarah asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Rumor says it’s behind the library,” Ben replied, glancing around nervously.

They moved down a narrow corridor lined with peeling wallpaper, the floorboards creaking under their weight. The silence was heavy, broken only by their footsteps and the occasional sound of dripping water echoing from somewhere deeper in the house.

They found the library at the end of the hall, a grand room with towering bookshelves that seemed to scrape the ceiling. Dust-covered books lined every shelf, and an eerie silence hung in the air, thick enough to choke on.

“Let’s spread out and see if there’s anything unusual,” James suggested, trying to sound confident.

As they began to search, a draft swept through the room, causing a single candle on the mantelpiece to flicker to life. It cast a sickly, wavering glow that made the shadows dance and twist on the walls. The sudden illumination revealed something strange—one of the shelves was slightly ajar, revealing a small gap behind it.

“Guys, over here!” James called out, pointing to the hidden door.

They gathered around, hearts pounding. James reached out and pulled at the shelf, and to their shock, it swung open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. A foul, musty odor wafted up, like the smell of something long decayed.

“Are we really doing this?” Sarah asked, her voice trembling.

“Too late to turn back now,” James said, though his voice had lost some of its bravado.

They began to descend, the only light coming from a small flashlight Ben had brought. The stairs creaked and groaned underfoot, and the air grew colder the farther down they went. It felt as if they were descending into the very heart of the earth.

At the bottom of the stairs, they found themselves in a low-ceilinged room with walls made of rough stone. Strange symbols were etched into the walls, some of them smeared with a dark, unidentifiable substance. In the center of the room stood a large wooden table, and atop it lay an ancient book, its cover bound in what looked disturbingly like leather.

Ben reached for the book, but Lucy grabbed his arm. “Don’t. We don’t know what it is,” she whispered, a tremor in her voice.

Just then, a low, guttural growl echoed from somewhere in the darkness behind them. They all froze, their blood turning to ice.

“What… what was that?” Sarah whispered, clutching James’s arm.

They turned, aiming the flashlight toward the source of the sound. There, at the edge of the room, a shadow moved—something that wasn’t human. It slithered and writhed, barely visible in the faint light, but they could see enough to know that it was something unnatural, something wrong.

“Run!” James shouted, pulling Sarah with him.

They bolted up the stairs, not daring to look back. The sound of scraping, slithering grew louder, closer, as though the thing was right behind them, reaching out with unseen claws.

They burst out of the hidden door, slamming it shut behind them. But the sounds continued, now joined by a chilling, whispering voice that echoed through the library.

“You can’t leave,” it hissed, the words scraping against their minds like nails on a chalkboard. “You opened the door. You’re mine now.”

They stumbled through the house, their frantic footsteps drowning out everything else. As they reached the foyer, the door to the manor suddenly slammed shut, trapping them inside.

Panicked, they pounded on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. The house seemed to come alive around them, shadows twisting and writhing, a chorus of whispers filling the air.

“Please, let us out!” Sarah screamed, her voice breaking.

The portraits on the walls began to change, their eyes darkening, the faces warping into expressions of terror and pain. One by one, the figures in the paintings turned their heads, watching the group with hollow, pitiless eyes.

The whispering grew louder, filling their minds, drowning out their thoughts. They could feel it, a dark presence pressing down on them, wrapping around them like a shroud.

And then, the voice spoke again, this time directly into their ears.

“Welcome to Witherby Manor,” it whispered, a mocking, twisted chuckle following the words. “You’ll never leave.”

As the fog closed in, their screams were swallowed by the darkness, the house standing silent once more, as though nothing had ever happened.

When the townspeople found the manor the next day, it was empty. But new portraits had appeared on the walls—four faces, each one frozen in an expression of terror, eyes wide and unseeing.

Witherby Manor had claimed its own once again. And as Halloween night fell, it waited patiently, eager for the next souls to walk through its doors.