The House at Hollow Creek

They told us never to go near Hollow Creek. The stories varied—some spoke of restless spirits, others of people who vanished without a trace. As kids, we traded those tales like haunted currency, each of us swearing we’d never dare to approach the sagging house perched at the water’s edge.

But when you’re seventeen and foolish, fear has a way of turning into curiosity.

It was late October, just days before Halloween, when my friends—Emma, Tyler, and I—decided to finally do it. The house at Hollow Creek had loomed in our imaginations for years, and somehow, that night, it felt like we owed it to ourselves to find out the truth.

The moon hung low and full, casting silver beams through bare tree branches as we followed the winding path. Hollow Creek itself slithered alongside us, the water black and quiet. The house appeared slowly, like a phantom rising from the mist. Even in ruins, it retained an eerie beauty: crooked shutters, ivy-strangled walls, and a sagging roof that pointed like a broken finger at the stars.

Tyler was the first to speak. “Looks smaller than I remembered.”

“Or maybe we just got bigger,” Emma said, her voice hushed.

I didn’t say anything. I was too busy staring at the upstairs window—where, for the briefest moment, I thought I saw movement. A curtain shift. A flicker of something.

“Let’s get it over with,” Tyler said, emboldened by the absence of immediate danger. He pushed open the gate with a rusted screech, and we stepped onto the overgrown path leading to the front door.

The door creaked open on its own as if the house had been expecting us.

Inside, the air was heavy with dust and rot. Floorboards groaned beneath our feet. Faded wallpaper peeled like curling skin from the walls. Everything smelled of dampness and something… older. Something ancient.

Emma’s flashlight caught on a photograph hanging askew: a black-and-white image of a family—mother, father, two children—faces stiff and unsmiling.

“I feel like we’re being watched,” she murmured.

Tyler laughed, but it was hollow. “Ghosts aren’t real.”

We explored cautiously, each room worse than the last: collapsed ceilings, smashed furniture, portraits with cracked glass eyes. In one room, a rocking chair swayed though no one had touched it. In another, we found a child’s doll—its porcelain face broken, one eye missing.

And then we heard it.

A soft sound, from somewhere upstairs. Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

All three of us froze. My heart thudded so loudly I was certain they could hear it. Tyler shone his light up the staircase. “Probably just an animal,” he whispered, though his voice trembled.

“No animal walks like that,” Emma whispered back.

Against every instinct, we climbed the stairs. Each step moaned under our weight. At the top, the hallway stretched before us, lit only by our flashlights and the weak moonlight leaking through broken windows.

The footsteps had stopped.

We passed by closed doors, each one more ominous than the last. Then, near the end of the hall, we found it—the room with the window I’d seen from outside.

The door was half-open.

Inside, dust motes floated like tiny ghosts in the beam of my light. The room was nearly empty, save for a chair facing the window. And in the chair… someone sat.

We stopped cold. None of us moved. The figure was still, unmoving, silhouetted against the moonlight.

Emma’s breath caught. Tyler swore under his breath.

Then the chair creaked as the figure slowly turned its head toward us.

It was a woman—what was left of her. Skin like thin parchment stretched over bones. Empty sockets where eyes should have been. Her mouth, impossibly wide, cracked into a smile.

I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t breathe. None of us could.

She raised a hand—thin, skeletal—and pointed.

Behind us.

Something cold brushed the back of my neck. I spun. In the dark hallway, more figures emerged—silent, gliding, their faces twisted in agony.

That broke us. We ran.

I don’t remember descending the stairs. I don’t remember crashing through the front door or tearing through the trees. All I remember is running until my lungs burned, until the only sound I could hear was the pounding of blood in my ears.

We didn’t stop until the house was far behind us. Only then did we collapse, gasping, trembling.

We never spoke of it again.

Something changed after that night. Tyler moved away before Christmas. Emma stopped answering my texts. As for me—I haven’t slept properly since. Every time I close my eyes, I see that house. That room. That smile.

I’ve looked into the history of Hollow Creek. The house once belonged to the Whitmore family—father, mother, two children. All found dead. The cause? Officially unsolved.

But I know the truth.

There are places where time twists, where darkness lingers longer than it should. The house at Hollow Creek is one of them. And some doors, once opened, can never be closed.