The Haunted House on Maple Street

At the far end of Maple Street, hidden beneath a canopy of gnarled oaks and shrouded in endless mist, sits a house that no one dares to approach. Its walls, once painted bright white, are now a graveyard of peeling paint and creeping vines. The broken windows leer like empty eyes, and the iron gate swings wildly even on still nights, groaning under the weight of its secrets.
For as long as anyone can remember, the house has been abandoned — or so people hope.
The stories began decades ago, when the Wren family moved in. Thomas and Evelyn Wren, a happy couple with their two young children, Lucy and Ben, were new to town. In the beginning, they mostly kept to themselves, but neighbors frequently heard laughter coming from their windows that were open. Then came the night of the storm.

The sky was opened by thunder like an old wound. Rain fell in sheets, turning Maple Street into a river. In the middle of the chaos, there were screams — blood-curdling, inhuman sounds that rose above the howling wind. Lights flickered violently from within the Wren house... then went dark.
When the storm passed, concerned neighbors gathered. They found the front door hanging open. Inside, there was no sign of the family. Plates still sat on the dining table, a game of checkers lay mid-play on the living room floor, and a single shoe, much too small, rested on the staircase.
The Wrens had vanished without a trace.
Years turned into decades, but the house never welcomed another family. Every attempt to renovate or sell the property ended in failure. Workers reported tools going missing, icy drafts that seemed to whisper in their ears, and sightings of shadowy figures darting down hallways. One construction foreman even swore he saw a child’s handprint appear on a freshly painted wall — though no children were anywhere nearby.
The house frequently became a rite of passage for local teens, who were encouraged by dares and bravado. Some would creep up to the porch, touch the rusted doorknob, and sprint away laughing. Others were not as fortunate. In the fall of 1998, a group of four high school seniors decided to spend the night inside the haunted house, armed with flashlights, snacks, and a cheap video camera. They joked as they crossed the threshold, their laughter brittle and forced.
For the first hour, nothing happened.
They explored dusty rooms filled with broken furniture and torn curtains. In the living room, the old checkers board still lay scattered across the floor, as if someone had just gotten up mid-game. Upstairs, the children's bedroom was eerily preserved — tiny clothes still hung in the closet, and a music box sat on the nightstand, its lid open but silent.
Then the temperature dropped.
The flashlights flickered. A low hum vibrated through the walls, growing louder and louder until it was a deafening roar inside their heads. Doors slammed shut one by one, sealing them inside the house.
Everything was captured by the camera, including trembling light beams, desperate cries, and the sudden, chilling laughter of unidentified children. By morning, only three of them stumbled out, wild-eyed and broken. The fourth, a boy named Eli Carson, was never seen again. His parents searched for months. Divers dragged the nearby river, volunteers combed the woods, but there was no sign of him — as if the house had swallowed him whole.
The camera's footage was eventually recovered, but a lot of it was so distorted that it was impossible to recognize it. One frame, however, remained clear: a glimpse of a boy, standing at the top of the staircase, smiling strangely. It wasn't Eli. It was someone — or something — else.
Since that night, the house has remained completely untouched. Nowadays, no one dares cross its threshold. Even the bravest among the town’s youth refuse to step onto the overgrown lawn.
However, on chilly, moonless nights, passersby claim to have seen the windows illuminate from within. Some people say they faintly hear music, like a sweet, lullaby. Others speak of a woman’s voice, calling out names that no one recognizes.
The older residents of Maple Street simply shake their heads and warn newcomers:
"Stay away from the end of the street. Once the house notices you... it never forgets."
And if you find yourself standing before the rusted gate, feeling the cold air coil around your ankles like fingers, you would do well to turn back.
Because some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.