The Shadows of Birchwood House

**The Shadows of Birchwood House**

Birchwood House was empty for years, but that did not stop the rumors. The large, dark house sat just beyond the edge of the little town, a sullen presence looming over the surrounding woods like a ghostly vacant sentinel. Folks would tell of strange noises—creaking floors, muffled whispers, a faint scratching at the windows—even when no one was there. But the most lingering myth involved the shadows.

Eleanor Dunlap had never been one for ghost-believing. There was no need for old wives' tales or superstition for her, particularly when the bills needed paying and a career needed maintaining. But when the house was left to her in her dead aunt's will, Eleanor found herself standing before its iron gates on a stormy afternoon, looking up at the house she'd only ever heard of in hushed whispers.

"Are you positive?" her boyfriend Matt asked while holding an umbrella over both of their heads.

"It's an old house, Matt. We'll clean it out, sell it, and be done with it," Eleanor replied, trying to sound braver than she was.

The air outside the house was thick, almost smothering. The tall trees that surrounded Birchwood creaked in the wind, their shadows capering fantastically against the decaying front of the house. The windows were veiled in a haze of grime, and the ivy that crawled up the walls seemed to reach out like fingers. Still, she forced herself on, keys held in her hand, and pushed the huge wooden door open.

The inside was just as she'd pictured it—cobweb-covered, abandoned, the air thick with a mildew scent. But something in the house crept across her skin. The walls were hung with old portraits, faces of serious-looking strangers who followed her every movement. It didn't improve matters that the wind screamed through broken windows and made the house appear alive in a manner that was not comforting.

“I’m going to check the back,” Matt said, his voice wavering as he quickly moved toward the rear of the house.

Eleanor nodded indistinctly, her gaze drifting back to one of the paintings. A woman with black eyes, standing in front of the very same house. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes—those eyes—followed Eleanor wherever she went. The more she stared, the more she squirmed. She shook her head and turned away.

But as soon as she uttered it, she heard it. A quiet whisper—so gentle, it could have been the breeze.

"Help me."

Eleanor came to a stop, her heart pounding. She spun around, expecting Matt to be there, but the room was empty.

"Matt?" she yelled out, her voice trembling.

Nothing.

The whisper was there once more, louder, clearer.

"Help me, please."

The hairs on the back of Eleanor's neck bristled. She stepped back from the painting, but now everything was wrong. The woman's face was twisted, her eyes pulled wide with terror, and her mouth stretched into a soundless scream. Eleanor stepped back in horror, but the whisper did not stop.

"Help me."

Eleanor's breathing was more rapid, and she spun around in a whirl. The door slammed shut with a blinding crash, plunging the room into darkness.

"Matt?" She shrieked once more, but her voice was drowned in the silence.

She picked up the sound of footsteps behind her. Slowly, tentatively, she swung around.

A figure materialized at the far end of the hallway. It was tall, extremely tall, with long, spindly legs. Its face was in shadow, but she could feel its eyes on her, burning through her being. A cold, wet fog swept past her as it stepped forward.

The whispering came back, this time with a scratching sound—claws on the walls, moving closer with every second. The figure moved towards her, its form twisting in impossible ways, stretching in directions that shouldn't have been possible. Its mouth yawned wide, and for an instant she could have sworn she saw a dark, gaping hole where teeth should have been.

"Help me."

Eleanor's body froze; her legs wouldn't budge as the thing drew nearer. The air clung to her, crushing her. Shadows seemed to move and twist, blacken, and—*snap*. She saw a flash of cold, biting pain at the nape of her neck. Something sharp and icy rubbed against her flesh.

And in the blink of an eye, darkness.

***

The following day, Matt returned to the house, calling out Eleanor's name with worry and anxiety in his voice. He walked into the dark corridor, but there was nothing.

And then he saw it—the woman's portrait. She was altered now. Her face was contorted with a cruel grin, and her eyes... her eyes were no longer watching Eleanor. They were on *him*.

Shivers coursed through his frame, icy and biting.

And then, behind him, he heard it. The whisper.

"Help me."