"The Silence in Cellar Hollow"

When Clara Bell inherited the decrepit farmhouse in Cellar Hollow, When Clara Bell inherited the decrepit farmhouse in Cellar Hollow, she almost laughed at the irony. Long thought to be insane, her estranged great-uncle Elijah had died there alone, whispering to the walls and writing in unintelligible symbols. Everyone said the place was cursed. But Clara, a rational woman, didn’t believe in curses.

The house stood on rotting soil, surrounded by gnarled trees that reached like fingers toward the sky. A thick fog clung to the ground even at noon, and no birds ever sang. Still, Clara moved in, intending to renovate and sell.

The first night was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that presses against your ears until you think they’ll bleed. She noticed it while lying in bed, the blanket clutched under her chin. No wind. No crickets. No creaks of an old house settling. Just a deep, oppressive stillness.

At 3:07 a.m., she woke to a knock.

Three precise taps on the floor beneath her bed.

There was no one there.

The next morning, she found a small wooden door in the floor of the pantry. It had never previously been there. It was just big enough to crawl through. The wood contained an embedded iron ring handle. When she tried to lift it, it wouldn’t budge. Not until the sun went down. Then, with an eerie groan, the door creaked open by itself.

She should have run then. But curiosity is a dangerous thing.

Clara grabbed a flashlight and climbed down.

The air grew colder with each step. A smell of wet earth and old decay filled her nose. She found herself in a narrow tunnel, lined with stone, stretching far into the darkness. The walls were marked with symbols—crude carvings of eyes, mouths sewn shut, and people with twisted limbs.

She turned to go back, but the way had vanished.

The tunnel now stretched only forward.

Her flashlight began to flicker. Shadows shifted around her, dancing like flame. She walked, heart thudding. The silence returned—deafening, alive. And then… whispers.

dozens of voices all speaking together, but without using words but only dry breaths. Clara was frozen. One breath sounded closer, warm against her neck.

She ran.

She stumbled into a chamber. It pulsed with a heartbeat not her own. The walls were flesh—not stone—and eyes blinked open across the surface. A figure stood in the center.

It was Elijah.

But not Elijah.

He was taller, his limbs elongated, face stretched like melting wax. He turned to her, smiling a smile filled with too many teeth.

“You came,” he said, voice like gravel grinding.

“What is this place?” Clara spoke softly. “Our home,” he replied. “You have the blood. You belong to us all." Clara stepped back. “No. You’re dead. This is not true." He stated, "You are correct." “You’re dreaming. But the truth is hidden in dreams." The eyes on the walls began to cry, weeping black ichor. The room began to pound. Clara screamed and fled. Behind her, the whispers turned to screams. The tunnel shifted, growing tighter, fleshlike walls pulsing, grabbing at her ankles.

She crawled. Climbed. Until her fingers clawed through the pantry floor.

Gasping, she pulled herself out. The house was different now—rotting, mold-covered, and dark as pitch. She dashed for the entrance. It was bricked over.

Every window was sealed.

The house groaned as if breathing.

In the mirror, she didn’t see herself. She saw Elijah’s smiling face.

Clara didn’t sleep that night. The knocking returned—this time from the walls. The voices whispered to her through the floorboards. Her eyes began to change—dilated black, like those of something nocturnal.

She tried to burn the house down. However, the flames went out instantly, as if the air had stopped feeding them. The next night, she heard a child crying in the basement. She awoke on the dirt floor, still crying, but she had no recollection of going down. She was developing. Clara’s dreams were no longer hers. She saw what was happening on the road through the house's eyes. Wishing for them to come closer. She no longer ate. The house fed her with its own hunger.

One morning, she found her reflection again—but it blinked out of sync. Smiled when she didn’t. Her mouth stayed closed while the mirror showed her teeth.

She smashed it.

On the final night, she heard footsteps above her bed. Slow. Heavy.