The House That Waited

There’s a house at the edge of town that nobody wanted to live in.

Its windows are broken, its walls sag, and the roof looks ready to collapse.
But it isn’t the decay that scares people.

It’s the stories.

They say the house listens.
They say if you stay too long, it will whisper your name.

The Dare

I never believed in ghost stories.

So when my friends dared me to spend one night inside, I laughed.
“Easy,” I said. “It’s just wood and brick. It can’t hurt me.”

I arrived just before sunset.
The air was heavy, still, and too quiet.

No birds sang in the trees.
No wind moved the grass.
Even the sky felt wrong, an eerie gray that swallowed the light.

I pushed the door open. It creaked louder than I expected.

Inside the Silence

The air smelled of dust and something faintly metallic.
The hallway stretched before me, lined with faded wallpaper peeling in claw-like shapes.

Each step echoed—but it didn’t echo like normal sound.
It came back… softer… delayed… almost like the house was thinking before replying.

I chose what must have been the living room.
Old furniture was covered in white sheets.
A cracked mirror hung on the far wall.

I avoided looking at it.

Then I heard it.

A whisper.

So faint I thought it was my imagination

“…leave…”

The Moving Shadows

I told myself it was the wind. Or maybe an animal.
But the windows were shut.
The air was still.

I decided to explore.

The floorboards groaned under my weight.
The walls seemed to narrow, as if the house was breathing in.

A picture frame hung crooked, showing a family I didn’t recognize—faces blurred, as though the photograph had melted.

Then I noticed something.

The shadows didn’t match my movements.
They lagged behind, just slightly.
When I stopped, they… hesitated.

And then they moved again—without me.

I turned my flashlight on them—nothing. Just empty space.

But I heard the whisper again. Louder.

“…you shouldn’t be here…”

The Upstairs Room

I don’t know why I went upstairs.
Every instinct told me to leave.
But my pride wouldn’t let me.

The staircase groaned under my feet.

At the top was a single door, slightly open.
From inside came a faint light.

I pushed the door gently.

The room was small, with a single chair in the center.
On the chair sat a doll.
Its eyes were black, its porcelain face cracked.

And around it…

Tiny handprints on the walls.
Too many. Far too many.

I stepped closer—
and the doll’s head turned.

The Voice

I stumbled backward.
The door slammed shut.

I was trapped.

The whisper became a voice now. Clear. Inside my head.

“You woke us…”

The air grew colder. My breath turned white.
From the corners of the room, shadows peeled away from the walls.

They were human-shaped, but wrong—stretched, boneless, flickering like smoke.
They circled me. Slowly.

The doll began to laugh.

I ran.

The Escape

I don’t remember how I got out.
I only remember the feeling of the front door hitting my shoulder as I burst into the cold night.

When I turned back, the house was completely dark again. Silent.

But in the top window, I saw it—
a face.

Watching me.

Aftermath

It’s been weeks since that night.
But sometimes…
When I try to sleep…

I hear the whisper.
Soft. Patient.

“…come back…”

And I know one thing for sure:

The house is waiting.

Thank you for stepping inside this story with me… and for being brave enough to stay until the end.

Not every visitor makes it out.

If you’re still here, safe and sound, remember this: some houses never stop waiting.

And sometimes… they’re waiting for you.