The Dark House on Sycamore Street

The Dark House on Sycamore Street

There was a house at the end of Sycamore Street that no one dared to enter. Children crossed the street when passing it, and adults avoided speaking of it altogether. The old Fennimore House, as it was once called, had been abandoned for over thirty years. Its shutters hung crookedly, paint peeled in long strips, and the garden was a jungle of thorns and weeds. But more than its decay, it was the silence that made it eerie — a silence so thick it seemed to hush the wind and chase away birds.

The townsfolk whispered about what happened inside, but no two stories matched. Some said old Mr. Fennimore had gone mad and sealed himself inside; others claimed a cult had once used the house for dark rituals. Whatever the truth was, no one knew for sure. What everyone agreed on, though, was that the house was cursed.

One rainy evening, a young journalist named Clara Reeves came to town. She worked for a small newspaper in the next city over and had a fascination for urban legends. When she heard about the Fennimore House, she felt the tug of curiosity stronger than fear. Her editor had sent her to write a piece on forgotten places — and Clara intended to do just that, even if it meant stepping inside a place others only spoke of in hushed tones.

Armed with a flashlight, camera, and notebook, Clara made her way to the house just as the last streaks of daylight faded behind the hills. The gate creaked open with a reluctant groan, and the front steps moaned beneath her weight. She took a breath and turned the doorknob. To her surprise, the door wasn’t locked.

The scent of damp wood and mold rushed out to meet her. The interior was cloaked in darkness, but her flashlight cut through it, revealing dust-laden furniture, faded wallpaper, and shattered picture frames. The air was heavy, and each step stirred decades of dust into reluctant swirls.

Clara began to explore, taking notes and snapping photos. She found a child’s toy chest overturned in one room, its contents strewn across the floor as though someone had left in a hurry. In the hallway, she passed a cracked mirror that seemed to warp her reflection. Then she heard it — the unmistakable sound of footsteps upstairs.

She froze.

"Hello?" she called, her voice sounding smaller than she'd intended. "Is someone there?"

No answer. Just silence. Then, another footstep.

Clara gripped her flashlight tightly and climbed the staircase. Each step groaned louder than the last. At the top, she saw a door slightly ajar, light flickering faintly from within.

She pushed it open.

Inside was a room untouched by time. Unlike the decay throughout the house, this room was pristine. A fire crackled in the hearth, though there was no chimney smoke outside. A tea set rested on the table, steam curling from the cups. And seated in the rocking chair by the fire was a woman — or what once had been a woman.

Her skin was gray and cracked like old porcelain. Her eyes were wide and glassy, locked on Clara without blinking.

“I’ve been waiting,” the woman said, voice brittle like dry leaves.

Clara couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

“You’ve come to take the story,” the woman continued. “But stories have a cost.”

The door slammed shut behind Clara. Her flashlight flickered and died. The warmth of the fire faded into cold. Clara’s scream never left her lips.

The next day, the house was quiet again. No trace of Clara remained, only her camera left on the porch — its last photo a blurry shot of a woman in a rocking chair.

To this day, the townsfolk still whisper about the Fennimore House. And now, they whisper about Clara Reeves, too — the girl who stepped inside the dark house on Sycamore Street and never came out.