The Wanted House

The Wanted House

Everyone in the quiet town of Elmsworth knew the house on Hollow Street. It wasn’t just abandoned — it was wanted. Not by people, but by something far worse.

Years ago, it was a lovely two-story Victorian home. Bright blue shutters, a rose garden out front, and the scent of fresh paint on its white porch. The Brennans, a cheerful family of four, were the last known residents. One summer night, they vanished. No note, no sign of struggle, no explanation. Plates were still on the table, water still running in the upstairs tub. All four were gone — like they’d never existed.

The town whispered legends, as small towns do. Some said the house called to people, especially those who were broken or desperate. Others believed it was cursed, built over something ancient and vengeful. But no matter how long it stayed empty, there was always someone new who wanted it.

Thirty-two people had moved into that house over the last twenty years. Not one stayed longer than a month. Some disappeared. Others ran away in the dead of night, wide-eyed and trembling, never speaking of what they saw. And still, strangely, the house kept appearing in real estate listings — freshly painted, newly renovated, and ridiculously underpriced.

That's what drew Hannah in.

A freelance writer with a love for creepy stories, she thought the rumors were perfect for her next book. She didn’t believe in curses — she believed in facts. And she needed a place to live. The price was too good to ignore, and the story was just too juicy.

The first night was quiet. Too quiet.

She explored every room, recording notes into her phone: “Original hardwood floors, weirdly cold upstairs hallway, attic locked with a rusted chain.”

That night, she dreamed of water — dark, deep water filling the house, rising past her knees, up to her chest, then over her head. She woke up gasping for air. Her phone was wet, lying in a puddle beside her bed.

Hannah laughed it off, blaming a leaky ceiling. But it didn’t rain.

On day three, she heard whispers through the vents. Not words — just murmurs. Like someone trying to remember how to speak. Her reflection in the mirror was delayed, blinking seconds after she did. The rose bushes she admired out front? Dead and blackened by morning.

Still, she stayed. She wanted to understand.

By day seven, her phone recordings were gone. Replaced by static and a voice whispering, “I see you.” Her research notes had been rewritten in someone else's handwriting — childlike, messy, repeating the phrase: “She wanted it. Now it wants her.”

On the tenth day, she found the attic key in her coat pocket. She hadn’t put it there.

She unlocked the attic door at sunset. The wooden stairs groaned beneath her feet. The air was thick, damp, and smelled of rotting flowers. At the top was a small room. Dusty toys, a rocking chair, and — painted on the wall in dried blood — a message:

“You don't choose the house. The house chooses you.”

Behind her, the attic door slammed shut.

The next morning, a "For Sale" sign appeared in the front yard. The house looked freshly painted again. The rose bushes bloomed overnight.

No one ever saw Hannah again.

But the house was listed online once more. New pictures. New price. And a message in the listing description:

“Perfect for storytellers. You'll never want to leave.”