The Haunted House.

It was early autumn when the Halloway House came into my life. After a long and arduous search for new lodgings, my friend Michael and I finally found ourselves standing in front of the looming Victorian mansion. It was an impressive sight, with its ornate gables and peaked roofs, but it was the sprawling garden that really took our breath away. It was like something out of an Edwardian novel; roses and dahlias of every color, tall hedges that formed secret pathways, and towering trees that whispered secrets in the breeze.

We rang the doorbell and waited. The sound echoed through the stillness, but no one came. We rang again, and still nothing. It wasn’t until the third time that we heard footsteps on the other side of the door.

The woman who answered the door was tall and slender, with dark hair and features that would have been stunning if not for the expression of perpetual sadness that seemed etched into her face.

“Hello,” she said, her voice soft and melancholy. “I’m Mrs. Halloway. How can I help you?”

“We’re looking for a place to rent,” Michael said, flashing her a charming smile. “We saw your ad in the paper.”

Mrs. Halloway looked at us for a long moment before nodding slowly. “I see. Well, you’d better come in then.”

She led us inside, and we found ourselves standing in a grand foyer. The air was thick with the scent of lilacs, and the light that filtered in through the stained glass windows was dim and eerie.

“This house has a long history,” Mrs. Halloway said, as if reading our thoughts. “It’s been in my family for generations. But it’s not an easy place to live. There are… things that happen here.”

We exchanged a glance. “Things?” I said.

“Strange sounds. Unexplained phenomena. And… well, there are some who say that the house is haunted.”

I couldn’t help but shiver at the word. Michael, on the other hand, grinned.

“Haunted, you say? That sounds like a bit of fun. We’ll take it.”

Mrs. Halloway looked at him for a long time, her eyes searching his face. Finally, she nodded slowly.

“Very well. I’ll show you to your rooms.”

The first few weeks in the Halloway House were uneventful. We settled in, explored the gardens, and tried not to think too much about the fact that we were living in a haunted house.

It wasn’t until the first week of October that things started to change.

It was a gloomy day, with heavy rain that pattered against the windowsills like ghostly footsteps. Michael and I were in the study, reading books and sipping tea, when we heard it.

At first, it was just a faint tapping, like someone knocking on the door. But as the minutes passed, it grew louder and more insistent, until it sounded like someone was trying to break down the door with a sledgehammer.

We exchanged a look and cautiously made our way to the door. As soon as we touched the handle, the knocking stopped.

We flung open the door, but there was no one there. The hallway was empty, and the only sound was the rain outside.

After that, the things that happened in the Halloway House grew more and more frequent. Doors would slam shut on their own, footsteps echoed through empty hallways, and objects would move inexplicably from one place to another.

But it was the ghosts that were the most unsettling.

We saw them at first only out of the corner of our eyes, glimpses of white dresses and pale faces that vanished as soon as we turned our heads. But as the days and weeks went by, they became more and more tangible.

There was the little girl who played by the fountain in the garden, her laughter echoing through the trees. There was the woman in the parlour, dressed in antique clothing and playing a mournful tune on the piano. And there were the shadowy figures that loitered in the corners of the rooms, watching us with cold, unseeing eyes.

Michael and I tried to ignore them, tried to convince ourselves that they were just figments of our imaginations. But it was hard to deny the reality of the Halloway House when the ghosts seemed to be watching our every move.

It was on Halloween night that things came to a head.

Michael and I had decided to invite a few friends over for a spooky evening in the Halloway House. We had candles and pumpkins, and we had bought an old Ouija board that we planned to use for a seance.

Everything was going well. We laughed and drank and told ghost stories, and the Halloway House seemed to be almost… happy. But then we lit the candles on the Ouija board, and everything changed.

The planchette moved almost as soon as our fingers touched it. At first, the messages were harmless – ‘hello’, ‘goodbye’, ‘are you there’? But then the words grew more sinister.

‘I am here.’

‘Leave this house.’

‘You do not belong here.’

The room grew colder, and the candle flames flickered ominously. And then, suddenly, the planchette made violent circles, as if it had been snatched by an unseen hand.

I don’t remember much of what happened after that. I remember screaming, and I remember the feeling of icy hands closing around my throat. I remember seeing Michael thrown across the room, his body hitting the wall with a sickening thud.

And then… nothing.

When I came to, it was morning. The sun was shining, and the house was silent.

Michael was dead. His neck had been broken in the fall, the same way the ghostly hands had squeezed the breath out of me.

I left the Halloway House that day, and I never went back. But I can still feel its presence in my dreams, and I still hear the ghostly whispers that tell me I do not belong there.

The Halloway House still stands, a lonely sentinel on the hill. But no one lives there now, and no one will ever stay for long. For the ghosts that haunt it are more than just restless spirits – they are the very essence of the house itself, bound to it for eternity.

And so the Halloway House remains, a tomb for the living and a playground for the dead. A place of eternal horror and despair, a reminder that some houses are best left empty.