The Stevenson house stood at the end of Willow Street, shrouded in decay and mystery. For years, it had remained empty, its wooden walls crumbling and its windows staring blankly into the quiet town like empty eyes. Children dared each other to approach the house, but none stayed long. Whispers floated around the town—whispers of screams that echoed from beneath the old floorboards during the dead of night.
When Clara arrived in town, she knew nothing of the house’s grim reputation. A young journalist, Clara had come to document the forgotten corners of small-town life, hoping to find a story that would make her name. The Stevenson house, with its eerie tales and mysterious past, seemed like the perfect subject.
She approached the mayor, an elderly man named Mr. Higgins, to learn more. He was reluctant at first, shaking his head with a grave expression.
“I wouldn’t meddle with that house if I were you,” he said, his voice low. “No good has ever come from it.”
“But why?” Clara pressed, her curiosity piqued.
“There’s something wrong there. Something unnatural. People hear screams late at night—terrible, bone-chilling screams. Some say it’s the ghost of Margaret Stevenson, others say... well, it doesn’t matter. Just stay away.”
Clara, of course, did the opposite.
That evening, armed with her notebook and a flashlight, she made her way to the house. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows that danced ominously on the cracked path leading to the front door. The air felt heavy, thick with an unspoken warning.
The door creaked open with little effort, revealing a musty interior. Dust hung in the air, and cobwebs draped the corners of the room like forgotten veils. The floorboards groaned under Clara’s weight as she stepped inside.
Her flashlight swept across the room, revealing faded wallpaper peeling away to expose rotting wood. A grand piano sat in the corner, its keys yellowed and silent. The house felt frozen in time, as if it had been abandoned in a hurry.
She moved cautiously, her footsteps echoing eerily. The air seemed to grow colder the deeper she ventured. In the dining room, she found an old diary on the table. Its leather cover was cracked with age, but the pages inside were intact. The handwriting was delicate, almost trembling, and the entries were dated from the 1920s.
“The screams began last night. They seemed to come from beneath the floor. I told John, but he said I was imagining things.”
Clara’s heart raced as she flipped through the pages. Each entry grew more frantic, describing nights of torment as the screams grew louder and more desperate. The final entry read:
“I can’t take it anymore. Whatever is down there, it wants out. I hear it calling my name now.”
Suddenly, a sound broke the silence—a faint, muffled cry. Clara froze, her flashlight trembling in her hand. The sound seemed to come from below her, just as the diary described.
Driven by equal parts fear and curiosity, she searched the house for a way to the basement. She found a trapdoor in the kitchen, hidden beneath a faded rug. It was locked with a rusted padlock, but a few hard tugs broke it loose.
The trapdoor creaked open, revealing a dark staircase leading into the unknown. The cries grew louder, more distinct. They were no longer faint whispers; they were anguished wails that made Clara’s skin crawl.
She descended slowly, each step groaning under her weight. The air was damp and smelled of mildew. Her flashlight cut through the darkness, revealing a small, barren room. In the center of the room was a wooden crate, its surface scratched and splintered as if something had tried to claw its way out.
The screams stopped abruptly. The silence was deafening, pressing down on Clara like a heavy weight. She approached the crate cautiously, her heart pounding in her chest.
As she reached out to touch it, the lid burst open with a violent force, and an icy wind swept through the room. Clara stumbled backward, her flashlight flickering. Shadows danced on the walls, and a low, guttural growl filled the air.
From the crate emerged a figure—pale and gaunt, with hollow eyes that burned with an unnatural light. Its skeletal hands reached for Clara, its mouth twisting into a grotesque scream that echoed through the basement.
Clara turned and ran, her flashlight forgotten. She scrambled up the stairs, the creature’s wails following close behind. She burst through the front door and into the night, not stopping until she reached her car.
The next day, Clara left town without a word, her notebook untouched. The Stevenson house remained as it was, silent and foreboding. But at night, the screams beneath the floorboards began again, louder and more desperate than before.
The townsfolk never spoke of the house again, and no one dared to approach it. But sometimes, late at night, a light could be seen flickering in the windows, and the cries of the forgotten echoed through the town, chilling the hearts of anyone who heard them.