The Haunting of Ashford House

At the edge of the city was an old house known as the Ashford House, which was weathered by itself. His windows looked deep, like dark, free eyes. For years, no one dared to go near me. The native spoke in steaming tones about the strange events that the house had troubled for as long as everyone could remember. The most enduring story was Eleanor Ashford, the woman of the house. She lived there in the early 20th century with her husband Richard. The couple was known for their charity and vain parties, but something creepy towered over them. Neighbors often whispered to the horrifying noises that came out of the house late at night - the noise of the stairs climbing the floor, the soft murmursing, the prominent sounds of crying women.

On a stormy night, Ashford was never seen again. No one knew what had happened to them. Some said they simply disappeared and put their gorgeous homes and life behind them. Others believed that the house itself had claimed it. The secrets were deepened as rumors about a curse bound by property. It appears that Ashford paid the award for the secrets that kept them.

Years passed, the house collapsed, and its walls were dampened by mold and Ivy as it craved its structure. But there was a story of an emergency intruder. Those who dared to enter the house reported hearing stairs, cold designs and the sound of observed sensations. But the truth of the Ashford house will eventually be revealed until young writer Thomas Langley decides to take the night.

Thomas did not believe in ghosts or legends. As a skeptic of the mind, he searched for the thrill of writing about ghosts, not because he believed in the supernatural, but because he thought it made for a good story. So, one night, armed with just a notebook and a flashlight, he entered Ashford's house to spend the night.

A heavy silence engulfed him as the main entrance opened. The air inside was thick with dust, and the planks moaned under his feet. The house seemed frozen over time, with old portraits hanging from the walls and dusty leaf furniture. That was exactly how he imagined it, and he laughed at himself at what the cliché looked like. Thomas got into camp in the large living room. He settled in an armchair and made notes for his article. Time passed, and the only sound was soft rain against the window. But when the clock reached midnight, something changed.

It started with the sound of soft stairs from the corridor on the upper floor. At first, Thomas thought it was the house that calmed down, but as the stairs grew, his hair rose to his neck. He glowed in his ears, listening to a reasonable explanation, but not there. Footsteps went slowly and intentionally, as if someone had gone straight on top of him.

Thomas's heart began to breed, but his curiosity overwhelmed his fear. He stood up, grabbed the flashlight and went down the stairs. The stairs smeared under its weight as I rose up into the darkness upstairs. The stairs were stopped, but it felt like something or someone was waiting for him, not drooping into the air.

He went along the hallway, and the beams of his flashlight slit through the blackness. At the end of the hall, there was a little ajar with the door. He opened it and stepped into the bedroom, which was not even touched by time. The bed was properly made, with a large mirror hung on the wall, reflecting his pale face. But something in the mirror caught his attention - the shadow moved as he held him.

Thomas turned around, but the room was empty. The door creaked, and the temperature dropped several degrees. He could feel how the air was getting colder, and the floor beneath it seemed to pulsate with unnatural energy. Then one voice (almost unhearable) shaped his name.

"Thomas..."

He froze. The voice was definitely a woman, and I could hear it nearby. The flashlight flickered, and I could see a fleeting shadow on the wall. Then a cold hand brushed his shoulders.

Thomas turned around, but once again the room was empty. His pulse was competing, with his neck hair at the end. He could now hear the soft breathing noise and slowly threw it as if someone was standing right behind him. He turned around, and there was a woman in the door. She wore a tattered dress, her face was pale and bald. Her long hair hangs from the twisted strands, her eyes wide from fear seemed to stare at him. The room was still cold when I reached out to tremble.

"Help me," she whispered, her voice exhaling against his ears. "Help me get away."

Thomas retreated and raced. He wanted to scream and run, but his legs didn't move. The woman began to fade, her shape slacked in a cloud of smoke, leaving behind a weak smell of lavender and decay. The room temperature returned to normal and the whispers stopped.

Frightened, Thomas ran out of the house, and his spirit retreated. He didn't stop until he reached the city's safety. He never said what had happened that night, but the experience changed him forever. He couldn't shake the feeling that the woman - the spirit - was still in this house, waiting for someone to reveal the truth about what happened to her.

The next morning, a notebook of neighbor Thomas was found in the front yard of Ashford House. His final entry was

"The house is alive. It holds a secret and will never let go. The curse is real, and its handle is narrower than I imagined."

On this day, Ashford's house remained empty, and the call from his back was sealed forever. The ghosts of the past were still caught up in, waiting for the next victim to get too close, so no one was on the dare to retreat.