The Silence at Blackmere House

Blackmere House stood at the edge of a forgotten coastal cliff, where the wind howled through broken railings and the sea beat against sharp rocks like a restless heart. It was the kind of place people in the UK whispered about, a house with a history so dark that even local tour guides avoided telling the full story.

Ethan Carter first heard about Blackmere House through an online urban legends forum. As a freelance content creator targeting audiences in the USA, UK, and Australia, he was always searching for stories that felt real — stories that crawled under the listener’s skin. And this one promised exactly that.

The house had been abandoned for over fifty years.

Locals said the last family who lived there disappeared in one single night, leaving behind food still on their plates and lights still burning. Police reports found no signs of struggle. No blood. No forced entry. Only silence.

Ethan booked a late-night visit with a local caretaker who was paid by the council to keep trespassers away. The caretaker, an older man named Harold, warned him before unlocking the rusted gate.

“Don’t answer if you hear your name,” Harold said quietly.

Ethan laughed it off.

He shouldn’t have.

The house smelled of damp wood, mould, and something faintly metallic. The floorboards groaned like they were tired of carrying secrets. Ethan switched on his torch and started recording audio for his vocal media channel.

“This is Ethan Carter, inside Blackmere House,” he whispered. “Locals say no one stays here after dark.”

At first, everything felt normal. Just an old, crumbling house.

Then he heard it.

A soft knock.

Not on the door — but from inside the walls.

He paused the recording and held his breath.

Knock.
Knock.
Knock.

Slow. Careful. Like someone tapping from the other side of the plaster.

Ethan moved towards the sound, his heartbeat loud in his ears. The wallpaper peeled away at his touch, revealing old wooden panels beneath.

That’s when he heard it.

His own voice.

“Ethan…”

The sound wasn’t loud. It wasn’t angry. It sounded… curious.

He turned around fast, expecting a prank.

No one was there.

He laughed nervously, turning his recorder back on.

“This place is playing tricks on me,” he said, trying to convince both himself and his listeners.

The temperature dropped suddenly.

His breath turned visible.

And the knocking returned — louder.

Now it wasn’t from the wall.

It was from upstairs.

Each step on the staircase creaked like a scream. Halfway up, the air grew thick, heavy, and cold. The torch flickered, and for a split second, in the beam of light, he saw wet footprints on the wooden floor ahead of him.

They weren’t human.

They were too long. Too thin. As if something had dragged itself across the floor.

A door at the end of the corridor stood slightly open. Inside, the room was empty — except for an old mirror.

The mirror was covered with dust. Cracks crawled across the glass like spiderwebs. But when Ethan stepped closer, the dust began to slide away on its own.

As if something on the other side was wiping it clean.

He raised his torch to his reflection.

But the reflection didn’t raise its hand.

It smiled.

And Ethan didn’t.

The reflection’s mouth opened wide, far wider than a human jaw should stretch, and it whispered:

“Stay.”

The door behind him slammed shut.

Darkness swallowed the room.

No torch light.
No phone signal.
No sound — except breathing.

But it wasn’t his.

The mirror cracked violently, and a thin, pale hand pressed through the glass like it was made of water instead of solid. Ethan screamed as the hand grabbed his wrist. Its skin was ice-cold, tighter than any human grip.

“Stay with us,” the voice echoed, now coming from everywhere.

Ethan fought with everything he had, pulling, kicking, screaming into the empty air. The glass shattered, cutting into his arms as he tore free.

The door burst open.

He ran.

He didn’t stop until he was outside, crashing through broken doors and overgrown weeds, collapsing at the rusted gate.

Harold was waiting.

Smoking calmly.

“You heard your name,” Harold said.

Ethan couldn’t answer. His hands were bleeding. His camera was still recording.

Later, when he uploaded the audio, he listened to it alone.

At the end of the recording, after his screams… there was something else.

A calm, familiar voice.

His own voice.

Whispering:

“He stayed.”

And to this day, viewers across the UK, USA, and Australia comment the same thing under his story:

They can hear breathing in the background —
and it isn’t Ethan’s.