The Hollow Eyes of Harrow House

The Hollow Eyes of Harrow House

In the small town of Harrow Hill, there stood a mansion that had been abandoned for decades—Harrow House. The locals avoided it, speaking only in hushed whispers when the subject came up. It was a house of legends, the site of strange happenings, and of a family that had vanished without a trace.

The story went that the Harrow family had lived there for generations. They were wealthy, respected, and seemingly happy. But that all changed the night of the fire. No one knew what started it, but by the time the fire department arrived, the house had been reduced to ashes. The only thing that remained was the charred remains of the once-grand structure and the haunting memory of the family that had perished in the flames.

Some said they had died in their sleep. Others whispered that they had been trapped, trying to escape, but the fire had been too fast. However, there were rumors that the fire had been no accident—some believed the family had been cursed, that they had invited something terrible into their home.

Years passed, and Harrow House remained untouched. The land around it grew wild, overtaken by weeds and brambles, but still, no one dared to approach. And then, one evening, a man named Victor Caldwell moved into Harrow Hill. He was a writer, drawn to the town for its history and eerie reputation. He rented a small cottage near the hill, intrigued by the old mansion on the ridge.

Victor was known for his fascination with the supernatural, and the locals had long since accepted the fact that strange things happened around Harrow House. But Victor, ever the skeptic, dismissed the stories as nothing more than folklore. His rational mind told him that there was no such thing as ghosts.

One evening, after a day of exploring the town and its surroundings, Victor decided to visit the infamous mansion. Armed with a flashlight and a notebook, he made his way up the overgrown path to the house. The air grew cold as he approached, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. But Victor was undeterred. He had seen countless abandoned buildings in his life, and none of them had ever made him feel uneasy.

When he reached the house, the front door creaked open as if inviting him in. He stepped over the threshold and immediately felt the temperature drop. The inside of the house was shrouded in darkness, save for the faint light of his flashlight. The walls were covered in soot, remnants of the fire that had consumed the house years ago. The floorboards groaned under his weight as he moved deeper into the house, the flashlight casting long shadows across the room.

Victor began to take notes, writing down his observations about the house’s eerie atmosphere. The air felt thick, as though something heavy was pressing down on him. He ventured further, moving from room to room, until he reached the grand staircase. The staircase was barely standing, charred and crumbling, but still intact enough to allow him to climb.

At the top of the stairs, there was a hallway with several doors. He chose the one at the end, a dark wooden door that looked like it hadn’t been opened in years. As he pushed it open, the door creaked loudly, the sound echoing through the house. Inside, the room was empty except for an old, tattered portrait hanging on the wall.

The portrait was of the Harrow family, their faces stern and proud, the kind of family portrait that exuded wealth and status. But there was something unsettling about their eyes—dark, hollow, and lifeless. Victor’s eyes lingered on the portrait, and he felt an unexplainable sense of dread wash over him. The faces of the family seemed to follow him, their eyes tracking his every movement.

Suddenly, there was a faint noise behind him. A soft scratching sound, like nails on wood. Victor spun around, but there was nothing there. His heart began to race, and he glanced back at the portrait. The eyes of the family were no longer hollow—they were filled with a dark, unnatural light. They seemed to pulse, as if they were alive.

The scratching sound grew louder, and Victor’s flashlight flickered. Then, in the corner of the room, he saw something that made his blood run cold—two glowing eyes, peering out from the shadows. He froze, unable to move or speak, as the eyes slowly crept closer, drawing nearer with each passing second.

The air around him grew heavier, suffocating, and he could hear a whisper, soft and cold, like a breath against his ear: “Leave... leave now, or you will stay forever...”

Victor tried to move, but his body refused to respond. He was rooted to the spot, paralyzed with fear. The eyes in the shadows came closer, and a figure began to emerge—a pale, skeletal figure, with skin that looked like it had been burned away. The thing moved slowly, dragging its body across the floor, its hollow eyes fixed on him.

Victor finally found the strength to move, his feet moving on their own accord. He bolted for the door, but just as he reached it, the figure lunged, grabbing him by the wrist. His flashlight flew from his hand and landed on the floor, its beam illuminating the figure’s face. It was the face of a woman—pale, burnt, and twisted in agony.

With a scream, Victor managed to break free, slamming the door behind him. He stumbled down the stairs, almost tripping over the crumbling floorboards. When he reached the front door, he ran out into the cold night air, gasping for breath.

He never spoke of what he saw in Harrow House again. The town’s people never saw him again, either. The house on the hill stood silent, its windows watching, waiting for the next soul who dared to enter.

And some say that on moonless nights, if you stand at the base of the hill, you can hear faint whispers in the wind, calling out to anyone who might listen, urging them to join the Harrow family—forever.