The Watchers of Blackwood Lane

STORY START

The day we moved into 657 Blackwood Lane, Emma found the first letter wedged in the porch railing.

"Dearest new neighbors," it began in elegant cursive.

"I’ve watched this house for generations. Who will bathe in the master tub? Whose blood will stain the floor? Welcome home."

I laughed it off. "Kids playing pranks," I told my wife.

I stopped laughing when the second letter arrived.

📬 Week 1: The Unraveling

"Little Thomas talks to his action figures at 3 AM. Does he know they answer him?"

Emma’s face went white. Only we knew about our 6-year-old’s sleep-talking.

Then came the third:

"The previous owners lied. The basement isn’t empty. Ask the man behind the furnace."

Police found nothing. But that night, Thomas screamed:

"Mommy! The shadow man smells like wet newspapers!"

👁️ Week 3: The Black-Eyed Children

I saw them first at midnight—two figures by the oak tree. Moonlight glinted off... nothing. Their eyes were pools of absolute blackness, like oil-filled sockets.

"Can we come in?" they chimed in unison. Voices flat as robot speech. "We’re so cold."

I slammed the door. Emma called 911.

The officers found only footprints—size 3 sneakers—leading toward the house, not away.

🔥 The Escalation

Letters grew crueler:

"Emma cries in the shower. She dreams of razor blades. Should I give her one?"

"Thomas’ goldfish didn’t jump. I held it down." (We found Mr. Bubbles suffocated in a Ziploc bag.)

Then, the night the power died, they appeared at Thomas’ window.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Three children now. Eyes like burnt holes in reality.

"We know your garage code," they droned. *"4-7-9-1. Let us warm our hands."*

Our actual code.

🚨 The Breaking Point

Detective Reyes installed cameras. They captured:

Letter 12 materializing mid-air on our fridge.

The children’s distorted shadows slithering under doors.

Thomas sleepwalking toward the front door, whispering: "The Watcher says you’ll die on Tuesday."

💀 The Final Confrontation

We fled to the SafeStay Motel. At 3:17 AM, the front desk phone rang.

"Room 214. Your toothbrushes are here."

Emma shrieked—our toothbrushes were missing.

I peered through the peephole.

Two black-eyed girls held our Hello Kitty toothbrush and Oral-B. Behind them stood a tall man in a 1920s suit, his face blurred like static.

"We brought a housewarming gift," the girls chanted.

A can of tuna rolled toward our door.

Inside: Emma’s wedding ring and a note:

"Run. We’ll find you. The walls have veins."

EPILOGUE

657 Blackwood Lane stands empty.

The police closed the case ("mass hysteria").

But last Tuesday, Thomas drew a picture at therapy:

Three children with charcoal eyes, handing letters to a man made of smoke.

At the bottom, he’d scribbled:

"The Watcher says you’re reading this."

(I just checked my curtains. You understand.)

#TrueHorror #WatcherHouse #BlackEyedChildren #ParanormalMystery #VocalMustRead #UnsolvedCrimes