The House That Ate the Wind
A tale of a blogger, a forgotten hill, and a house that devours the silence...
“Where the breeze once whispered secrets, now silence screams.”
Chapter I. The Windmill Hill
In the remote countryside of southern France, near a forgotten hamlet called Vieux-Corbeau, stands a crumbling house on a hill—one the locals only refer to in hushed tones as La Maison du Vent. The House of the Wind.
They say the wind never touches that hill. Not a breeze, not a whisper. The leaves on the trees remain deathly still, even during storms. Birds avoid it. Animals refuse to cross the dry, cracked path that leads to its gaping mouth of a door.
To most, this would be a tale spun for tourists. But for Camille, a travel blogger chasing haunted legends, it was a story worth chasing.
She was wrong.
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Chapter II. The Entry
Camille had been recording stories of abandoned European manors—most turned out to be graffiti-tagged ruins or places with dramatic pasts but peaceful presents. She didn’t believe in ghosts. Only in architecture, lighting, and clicks.
She reached Vieux-Corbeau after dusk, greeted by silence so deep it made her ears ring. An old woman at a nearby tavern gripped her wrist tightly when Camille mentioned the hill.
"Do not breathe deep in that house, child. It remembers sounds. And it starves."
Camille smiled politely. Her French was passable, but she assumed the woman meant “it's haunted.” She didn’t ask further.
The hike up the hill took only fifteen minutes. But something felt off.
Like the grass had stopped growing.
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Chapter III. The Door That Didn’t Wait
The door to the house opened as soon as she approached, creaking as if sighing in relief. The air inside was not stale, not musty—it was dead. Like a room sealed not for years, but centuries.
And yet... there was no dust.
Not on the furniture, not on the staircase, not on the porcelain dolls arranged neatly on a mantle, all facing the doorway. One blinked.
Camille began to film. She narrated softly, and the mic picked up... something.
A second voice.
Behind hers.
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Chapter IV. The Breath That Wasn’t Hers
She paused the recording. Played it back.
"La lumière... éteignez-la..."
"The light... turn it off..."
The voice was whispery, childlike, and breathless. But unmistakable. Camille turned off her camera.
That’s when the lights—all of them—snapped off.
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Chapter V. The Stairs That Led Nowhere
Camille lit her phone’s flashlight. The beam flickered. Her hand trembled, but she refused to leave.
She heard it then. Wind. Inside the house. Not from the broken windows—but from the walls.
It sighed through the wallpaper, carrying with it faint cries, prayers, whispers, and... chewing?
She climbed the stairs, each step groaning like a plea. At the top was a narrow hallway lined with cracked paintings—each depicting a girl standing on the same hill, next to the same house, at different times in history.
Their eyes... followed her.
At the end of the hall was a child’s room. The walls were covered in scribbles, all in charcoal.
"Don't look down."
"He lives under the floor."
"He eats the ones who scream."
In the corner, a small bed. On it, a girl’s doll. Its porcelain face cracked in a perfect smile.
The doll turned its head.
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Chapter VI. The Floor Gave In
Camille backed away, but too late. The wooden floor beneath her split open like a mouth, and she fell—not down, but in.
Darkness swallowed her, and all she heard was the wind screaming in reverse.
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Chapter VII. The House Rebuilds
Weeks later, a new tourist visits Vieux-Corbeau. Camille’s blog hasn’t updated in 14 days.
The tavern owner shrugs.
"Some houses take, some give. That one only takes."
The house on Windmill Hill now has a new painting in the upstairs hall.
A girl, holding a camera, standing on the hill.
She’s not smiling.
But she watches.
And if you listen closely, you can hear wind, faintly... calling your name.
Follow this space if you believe some stories don’t end when the page turns — real haunted tales awaits in every shadow
About the Creator
Tales That Breathe at Night
I write what lingers in the dark—true horrors veiled in fiction, fiction rooted in truth. Some tales are whispered in graveyards, others buried in silence. If it gave someone nightmares, I’ll write it. Some stories remember you, too.
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Comments (3)
Very good story and well written.
Wow! This was so atmospheric, I loved it!
Some stories never leave us—especially the ones we lived. I’m always fascinated by real-life haunting experiences from around the world. Whether it's a whisper in the dark or a shadow that never quite belonged—share the ghost stories that stayed with you. Let’s talk about the eerie tales from our childhood, the unexplained moments that linger, and the legends we grew up fearing. The shadows are listening....