The Table Set for Six

The Blackthorn Lane house stood vacant for decades, windows shattered, roof sagging under the burden of years. People talked of it in whispers, as though the house could hear. They referred to the Holloways who used to reside there and how they had vanished one stormy night, leaving a five-place table set and a single, bloody handprint on the wall.

No one was silly enough to go up to the house, not even the bravest of children. But when Emma arrived in town, fresh out of college and ready to start her new career at the local library, she didn't know the tales. She only saw the house as a challenge, an anachronism that was waiting to be investigated. And so, on a cold autumn evening, with nothing but a flashlight and curiosity to lead the way, she opened the rusty gate and onto the weeds-choked path.

The air was thick with the stench of decay, and the wind breathed her name as she climbed up to the front door. It creaked open, its rusty hinges swaying gently. Emma hesitated, her heart pounding against her chest, but she pushed on, her flashlight cutting through the darkness.

Inside, the house was a tomb. Dust coated everything, and floorboards groaned beneath her feet. The walls were decorated with yellowed photographs, their faces smudged and blurry. She walked through the rooms, the light of her flashlight casting across broken furniture and shards of glass. The air grew colder with each step, and she sensed something behind her, something that lacked a physical presence.

In the dining room, she found the table, still set for five. Plates were in shards, silver tarnished, but the chairs stood in neat rows as if expecting their occupants to return. Emma's breathing was stilled when she noticed the handprint on the wall, brown and withered, fingers spread wide as if grasping for something—or someone.

She was going to go, her heart betraying her, when a sound froze her. It was indistinct in the beginning, a weak scratching, like the sound of nails on wood. It was from upstairs. Emma's brain was saying she should run, but her legs propelled her toward the stairs, the boards groaning under her weight.

The scritch increased in volume as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and she followed it to a shut door at the end of the hallway. Her hand trembled as she opened the door with the handle, and when she did, the door creaked open.

The room was empty, except for a single rocking chair in one corner. It rocked ever so slowly, back and forth, though no one sat there to push it. Emma's flashlight flickered, and in the brief darkness, she heard a low, raspy voice whispering her name.

She retreated, her heart racing, but the door shut hard behind her. The rocking chair stopped its creaking, and the room was quiet. Then, from the darkness, a figure emerged. It was tall and gaunt, its face white and stretched taut over its skeleton. Its eyes were blank, its lips curled into a repulsive smile.

Emma screamed, but she was silenced. The figure approached her, its motion jerky and unnatural. She tried to run away, but her legs refused to move. The figure reached out, long, bony fingers ending in a cold, hard caress. It placed its hand on her cheek. Its fingers were icy cold and sent a searing pain racing through her as if her soul was being ripped from her body.

When they found her the next morning, she was sitting at the table, face white and eyes vacant. The table was set for six now, and a new handprint, red, scorched the wall beside her. They tried to pull her away, but she did not move. She just sat there, staring at the empty chairs, her mouth working in silent whisper.

The house still stands on Blackthorn Lane, its doors fast locked, its windows boarded up. But on windy nights, when the wind is howling through the trees, you can hear it—the scratch of fingernails on wood, and a low, harsh voice, calling you. And if you're stupid enough to answer, you'll be sitting at the table, waiting for the rest to join you.