It started with whisper.
Not the one you hear from a person, but a species that persists in the back of your mind – subordinate, urgent, impossible to ignore. At first I thought it was just nerves. After all, buying a house was a big step.
But when I stared at the list of the charming old home, something upset me about it. The price was too good, the description too vague, yet I felt an inexplicable move to it as if the house itself was waiting for me. I thought I was paranoid. After all, what was the worst thing that could happen?
For years, I longed for my own home-outcuff without rent, disturbing inspection and the ubiquitous noise of neighbors above. When I came across a list of a charming old house at an incredibly low price, I knew I had to see it for myself.
House, set at the end of the winding road, radiated a timeless silence, as if it were in its own remote world. When I first saw it, the setting sun bathed its weathered brick exterior in a golden shade. The vaulted windows glowed gently, while Ivy climbed to one side as her own works of art on nature.
It wasn’t perfect – the porch was slightly sagging and the color began to peel – but that was an undeniable charm, which was worth it.
“Isn’t that beautiful?” Valerie, a real estate agent, appeared beside me and balanced a strong pile of paperwork. Her smile was polite but distant as if he was practicing. “You won’t find such an agreement anywhere else.”
I nodded and listened to the fine bell of the wind bells that rocked in the wind.
Inside the house was equally captivating. The living room boasted a large stone fireplace, a species that invited a cozy winter night. The staircase gracefully curved, his railing polished smooth from the years of use. Valerie followed me from the room to the room and pointed to the panels of the stained glass in the kitchen door and the original crown bar.
But as we approached the basement door, something changed.
The door itself was not negligible – the organ wood with a hand brass handle – but the inexplicable tension settled above me. Just as I reached out, Valerie coughs sharply and pointed out my attention.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” she said, and she went between me and the door. “Just storage. The key was incorrectly placed, but we’ll send it to you later.”
Her voice waved slightly, as the thread attracted too tight lie. For the first time I noticed that her hands were trembling.
I renounced my restlessness aside. That was my chance to own something real, something that really belonged to me. At the end of the week I signed the papers and moved in.
Neighbors were not particularly welcome. The first day was watched by an older man across the street with a deep frown and carved his expression with a stone. When I waved, he suddenly turned and disappeared inside. I shook the restlessness and focused on settling.
That night, exhausted from movement, I collapsed into bed. The house moaned and creaked around me, but I made sure it was just the sound of an old house that adapted to his new passengers.
At exactly 3:13 in the morning I woke up to the sound of the tracks.
At first I refused it as my imagination. But then I heard it again – a slow, deliberate shuffle coming from below.
I grabbed the phone and turned on the flashlight. The room was just like I left. Nothing was in place. And yet the sound persisted and pulled me to the basement door.
When I achieved it, my breath caught my throat. The door that was firmly closed when I moved in, now stood slightly open.
“Hi?” My voice trembled as I firmly gripped the phone. Silence.
I armed with a heavy candle and slowly opened the door wider. The staircase of the basement stretched in front of me, the shadows so thick that they seemed to pulsate. Step by step I descended, every creak under my feet was empty space.
The basement was ordinary – cracked cement floors, dusty shelves, one bulb swinging from the ceiling. Then I saw it.
In the corner sat a small wooden box, almost hidden in the matte glow. At first glance, it was not negligible, except for complex woodcarvers etched on its surface – symbols that I did not recognize.
As I approached, it was cold. The air grew, thus fighting every breath. Hesitantly, I picked up the lid.
Inside, the content seemed to be innocent enough: a doll with one eye, a rusty key and a faded photo, the faces are too worn to identify themselves.
Then the air moved. The light set off a cold breeze.
And laugh filled the darkness.
It was tall, brass, and echo all around me. I hit back and almost threw the phone. Laughter turned and wrapped around me like a sinister whisper. My heart pounded, screwed up the stairs and slammed the door closed behind me.
The following morning I called Valerie. Her cheerful tone cooled the moment I mentioned the basement.
“Listen,” she finally said, and her voice was tense with unspoken tension. “The house has a history. I never wanted to scare you, but if you feel uneasy, we can discreetly discuss the sale.”
I ended the call without replying.
Determined to reveal the truth, I began to explore. Old newspaper archives revealed that the house once belonged to a family that disappeared without a trace. The only survivor was their youngest daughter – stressed by wandering through the forest that clutched the doll with one missing eye.
That night I set up cameras cameras, determined to capture everything that chases my home. For hours, I started to wonder if I imagined it all.
Then just in midnight the screen was flashing.
The wooden box was forcibly trembling. And in front of him, illuminated by the night vision, there was a character – a little girl, her face shrouded in darkness.
I stared frozen as it slowly turned toward the camera.
She smiled.
Then the screen turned black.
I wrapped my bags in the morning. The house had the potential to be everything I ever wanted, but some dreams are better unrealized. When I pulled out, I stole the last look into the rearview mirror.
A little girl stood on the porch and waved cheerfully.
Conclusion
When I left, my heart pounded a mixture of relief and persistent fear. The house with all its scary beauty would remain a mystery – the one I did not want to solve. Some places are supposed to keep their secrets and some dreams are best left untouched.
Although I once believed that this house would be in my sanctuary, I now understood that not every home was to be experienced. When the road curved, I took the last look in the rearview mirror. A little girl stood there, her little hand raised in a quiet farewell.
I pressed my leg on the gas and I never looked back.