The House That Called My Name

David never planned to return to his childhood home.

After his parents died in a fire when he was ten, he had been sent to live with relatives. The house had been abandoned for years, left to rot at the edge of town.

But now, as an adult, he had inherited it. And for some reason, he felt compelled to go back.

The moment he stepped inside, the memories rushed in. The old wooden floors creaked beneath his feet. The air smelled of dust and something faintly burned.

He shouldn’t have come back.

That night, it started.

A whisper.

At first, he thought it was the wind. But then, he heard it again.

"David."

The voice was soft, almost familiar.

He froze.

His parents had died in this house. And now, someone was calling his name.

Swallowing hard, he followed the voice. It led him to his old bedroom—the only room untouched by the fire.

The door creaked open on its own.

Inside, everything was as he remembered. The bed. The toy chest. Even the little handprint he had made on the wall as a child.

Then he saw it.

A figure standing in the corner.

Its body was blackened, burned beyond recognition. But its voice—

"David, come home."

His mother’s voice.

David’s blood ran cold. His mother was dead.

The figure took a step forward.

David backed away, but the house wouldn’t let him leave.

The door slammed shut. The floorboards groaned under invisible weight. The whispering grew louder—dozens of voices calling his name.

"Come home, David."

The walls darkened. Smoke curled from the ceiling. It was happening again.

The fire.

Flames erupted around him, just like that night so many years ago.

David screamed, clawing at the door.

Then—

Everything went silent.

The fire was gone.

The house was empty.

And David?

He was never seen again.

Some say the house still calls his name.

Waiting for him to come home.