The Hollow House

The village of Grendale had always been quiet, wrapped in the mist of old folklore and superstitions. It was a place where people whispered more than they spoke, and they spoke most often about the Hollow House.

The Hollow House stood at the end of Birchwood Lane, alone and crumbling, its windows black as empty eye sockets. No one had lived there for decades, not since the night the Ashford family vanished. People said they heard screaming that night—screams that rose above the storm—but when the police arrived, the house was empty. Only the furniture remained, all toppled over as if an invisible hand had swept through in fury.

For years, children dared each other to touch the rotting wooden gate, and adults crossed the street to avoid looking directly at the house. They said that if you stared too long into its windows, you would see movement—figures that weren’t quite human.

But Evan didn’t believe in ghosts.

Evan was 23, fresh out of college, and home for the summer. He had grown up hearing the legends, but he had always rolled his eyes at them. To him, the Hollow House was nothing more than a perfect spot for a late-night adventure. So, when his friends bet him fifty dollars that he wouldn’t spend the night there, he didn’t hesitate.

He packed a flashlight, a small backpack, and a single bottle of water. By sunset, he was standing at the gate, heart thudding in his chest—not from fear, he told himself, but from excitement. The air was unnaturally still, and even the crickets had fallen silent as he pushed open the gate. It creaked so loudly it felt like the entire village could hear it.

The front door was unlocked.

Inside, the air smelled of mildew and decay. The wallpaper peeled in long strips, and the floor groaned under his weight. Evan clicked on his flashlight, the beam slicing through the shadows. He saw the remnants of a family home: a couch with stuffing pouring out, a dining table with one leg broken, a child’s doll missing an eye.

He laughed nervously to himself.

“Piece of cake,” he muttered.

He set up his sleeping bag in the living room. The night stretched on, and the house seemed to exhale around him—wood shifting, wind whispering through unseen cracks. Around midnight, the temperature dropped sharply. He shivered and pulled his jacket tighter. That was when he heard the first sound that wasn’t the house:

Footsteps.

Soft, dragging footsteps upstairs.

Evan froze, straining to listen. His mind raced—maybe it was an animal, or the house settling. He held his flashlight tighter and decided to investigate. Slowly, he climbed the stairs, each step protesting under his weight. The sound continued: drag, thump… drag, thump… always just a little ahead of him.

At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched out like the throat of a beast. His flashlight flickered, and in that brief pulse of darkness, he thought he saw something—a figure at the far end, pale and motionless.

“Hello?” His voice cracked.

No answer.

He forced himself forward, his breath shallow. The figure seemed to waver in the dim light until he realized it wasn’t a person—it was a mirror, tall and old, leaning against the wall. He laughed with relief, but the sound died quickly in his throat.

In the reflection, there was someone standing right behind him.

Evan spun around, but the hallway was empty. His heart pounded as he looked back at the mirror. The reflection was normal now.

He decided then and there he would not win this bet. He was leaving.

He practically ran down the stairs, but as he reached the front door, it slammed shut with a deafening bang. He yanked at the handle—it wouldn’t budge. The air grew heavy, suffocating, and whispers slithered through the walls. They were faint at first, then grew louder, overlapping:

“Stay… with… us…”

“…never left…”

“…hungry…”

He backed into the living room, his flashlight shaking in his hand. And then he saw them.

From the walls, the shadows began to peel away, taking the shape of twisted, elongated figures. Their faces were smudges, featureless and yet somehow screaming. They reached for him with long, blackened fingers.

Evan screamed and swung his flashlight wildly. The beam passed through the shadows, but they only grew closer, surrounding him. He stumbled backward into the corner, the whispers now a deafening roar. He closed his eyes and shouted for help until his voice broke.

When the villagers found the Hollow House the next morning, the front door was wide open.

Evan was gone.

Only his flashlight remained, lying in the middle of the living room floor, still on.