Horror Story

 The House on Maple Street

In a small town, nestled among whispering pines, stood an abandoned house on Maple Street. It had been vacant for decades, the locals whispering about the family that once lived there—the Morgans—who had vanished without a trace. Some said they had fled, while others insisted they had met a grim fate.

Curiosity gnawed at Mia, a newcomer to the town. Ignoring the warnings of her neighbors, she ventured to the house one foggy evening. The air was thick with an unnatural stillness as she pushed open the creaking front door. Dust motes danced in the fading light, and the scent of decay filled her nostrils.

As she explored the shadowy rooms, a chill settled in her bones. Photographs lined the walls, showing a smiling family at happier times. But as she leaned closer, the smiles twisted into grimaces, their eyes darkening as if they were silently pleading for help. She shuddered and turned away.

In the attic, she found a worn diary belonging to the youngest Morgan, a girl named Emily. The last entries were frantic, describing shadows lurking outside their windows and whispers that echoed through the night. “They want us,” one entry read. “They’re coming for us.”

Just then, a soft sound echoed from the corner of the room—a child’s giggle. Mia froze. The air grew colder as she turned slowly, her heart pounding. In the dim light, she saw a figure, a little girl with matted hair and hollow eyes, standing at the edge of the darkness.

“Help us,” the girl whispered, her voice like ice. “They won’t let us go.”

Terrified, Mia stumbled back, the diary slipping from her hands and falling open to a page filled with frantic scrawls. Suddenly, the room was filled with shadows, writhing and reaching toward her. The girl’s expression shifted to one of anguish, and Mia felt a cold grip wrap around her throat.

Desperately, she ran for the stairs, but the shadows were faster, dragging her back toward the attic. As she screamed, the girl vanished, leaving Mia alone in the suffocating darkness.

With a final surge of adrenaline, she broke free and bolted down the stairs, flinging open the front door and stumbling onto the porch. She looked back, gasping for breath, and saw the house standing silent, as if it had never moved.

The next day, the townsfolk found Mia at the edge of Maple Street, staring blankly at the house. When they asked what had happened, she only whispered, “They’re still there.”

The house remained, a dark sentinel, waiting for the next curious soul to venture too close. And as the fog rolled in each night, the whispers began again, echoing through the trees—luring the unsuspecting, always hungry for more