The House That Stole My Soul

The Moment I Lost Myself

The moment I lost myself was the moment I stepped into that house. It wasn’t just any old abandoned place it was a building wrapped in whispers and shadowed in rumors. Everyone in town warned me to stay away, but curiosity had a different plan. I was about to find out why.

It was a cold, foggy night when I arrived. The sky was thick with low-hanging clouds, and the streetlights flickered like ghosts trying to stay alive. The house sat at the end of the dead-end road, its paint peeling like scabs and windows dark, like eyes that had long forgotten how to see. The kind of place that doesn’t just hold memories but traps them.

I pushed open the creaky front door, the rusty hinges groaning like a scream that had been stuck inside for decades. The air inside was stale and heavy as if the house was holding its breath, waiting for something. My flashlight beam darted across faded wallpaper, cracked floorboards, and a grand staircase that twisted into darkness above.

As I moved deeper inside, I felt the walls closing in. I told myself it was just nerves. But then I heard it faint, barely a whisper. A voice. It was so soft, like a breath tickling my ear, but unmistakably human.

“Leave…”

I spun around, heart pounding, but saw nothing. Just the peeling walls and the heavy silence pressing down on me. I took a step forward. Another whisper.

“Go back…”

My skin crawled. The voice wasn’t angry or demanding it was pleading. Desperate. I wanted to run, but my feet felt glued to the floor.

That’s when I noticed the portrait hanging crooked on the wall. A woman’s face, pale and blurred by time, with eyes that seemed to follow me. And behind her, a shadow darker than the rest of the room shifting just out of sight.

I swallowed hard and moved toward the staircase. Each step creaked under my weight, echoing through the empty halls. At the top, the hallway stretched on, lined with closed doors and cold drafts slipping through cracks.

The whispers grew louder, overlapping into unintelligible murmurs. I paused at a door at the very end. It was slightly ajar. The room beyond was pitch black, but I felt the pull
like something inside was waiting.

I pushed the door open. Inside was a small nursery, untouched by time. A cracked crib stood against one wall, and toys lay scattered on the floor, frozen in a moment from long ago. The air was colder here. And then I heard it clearly.

A child’s voice. Soft, scared.

“Help me…”

I stepped inside, heart hammering. The door slammed shut behind me. Darkness swallowed me whole. My flashlight flickered and died.

Panic set in. I fumbled for my phone, but no signal. The whispers became a chorus, growing into screams. Shadows danced on the walls, twisting into shapes that clawed at my mind.

Suddenly, I felt cold fingers brush my neck. I spun, but there was no one there. The air grew thick with sadness and rage. The woman from the portrait appeared before me translucent, eyes full of pain.

“You came for her…” she whispered.

“For who?” I stammered.

“My daughter… lost to this house.”

She reached out, and I felt a pull, like my soul was being torn. I screamed, trying to break free, but the darkness wrapped around me, swallowing my voice.

Time lost meaning. I drifted between moments of terrifying clarity and crushing despair. I was no longer sure if I was alive or a ghost trapped within those walls.

And then silence.

I woke up outside the house, dawn breaking over the horizon. The house stood quiet and still, no sign of what had just happened. But I was different. Hollow. Fractured.

I never spoke of that night. No one believed me anyway. They said I’d been drinking, that it was a nightmare. But I know what I lost in that house. I lost myself.

And sometimes, when the wind howls just right, I swear I still hear the whispers calling me back begging me to come home.