The Arrival of Nathan Holloway
Nathan Holloway had always been fascinated by unsolved mysteries. A journalist by trade, he had spent years chasing urban legends, forgotten crimes, and the eerie tales that lurked in the dark corners of history. His latest assignment had brought him to the abandoned town of Blackwood—a place swallowed by silence, its history buried under layers of dust and decay.
Legend had it that the last person to leave Blackwood was a reclusive writer named Edgar Vale. His journal, said to contain the town’s final, chilling days, had never been recovered. Some believed it held secrets best left undiscovered, while others dismissed it as mere folklore. Nathan, however, saw it as a story waiting to be told.
The House on Hollow Street
Following old town records, Nathan found himself standing before a decrepit Victorian house on Hollow Street. The building leaned like a weary specter, its windows shattered, its once-grand doors rotting on their hinges. The air smelled of mold and something metallic, something old.
Pushing past the broken entrance, Nathan stepped into darkness. His flashlight flickered as dust spiraled in the air. Faint echoes of footsteps not his own whispered through the silence, but he dismissed them as tricks of the mind.
After hours of searching, he found it—a leather-bound journal resting on a desk covered in cobwebs. The name Edgar Vale was etched on the cover in faded gold. As his fingers brushed against it, a sudden chill crept up his spine. The pages were brittle, but the ink remained vivid, almost fresh.
The Words of the Damned
Nathan flipped to the first entry.
October 3rd, 1952. I hear them whispering in the walls.
He frowned, turning to the next page.
October 6th, 1952. They move when I do not look. Shadows that stretch too far. Eyes that glisten in the dark.
A distant creak echoed through the house. Nathan’s breath hitched. He had spent years in abandoned places, but something about this house felt… aware.
Another entry caught his attention.
October 12th, 1952. The journal must not leave this house. It must not be read beyond these walls. If you are reading this… It knows you are here.
The words sent a shiver down his spine. His flashlight dimmed for a moment, the shadows in the room seeming to lengthen. Then he heard it—a slow, deliberate creaking, as if someone was stepping closer.
The Whispering Darkness
“Nathan…”
The voice was a breath against his ear. He spun around, heart hammering. No one was there.
Trying to steady himself, he turned another page.
October 15th, 1952. It wants the journal. I have locked myself inside my study, but the whispers… they are inside now.
If anyone finds this, leave. Burn the journal. Do not take it beyond these walls.
Nathan exhaled sharply. He had uncovered countless eerie artifacts before, but never had he encountered words that felt so… present. He needed to get out.
The House Awakens
He clutched the journal and turned toward the door—only to find the hallway had changed. What had once been a single corridor was now an endless stretch of doors, all slightly ajar, all leading into blackness.
A guttural whisper slithered through the air. “You should not have read it.”
The doors slammed shut. The walls pulsed, as though something inside them was breathing. The floor beneath him felt soft, like flesh.
Panic surged through his veins. He bolted, gripping the journal tightly, his breath ragged. He reached the staircase—only to see a figure standing at the bottom.
Edgar Vale.
Or what was left of him.
The Last Warning
The figure was gaunt, its face stretched unnaturally long, hollow sockets where eyes should have been. Its mouth, twisted and torn, formed words without sound. The journal in Nathan’s hands grew heavier.
He understood now.
This was never a record of the past—it was a trap. The journal was alive, feeding on those who read it, binding them to the house.
Edgar had not died.
He had been consumed.
The Escape
With a desperate cry, Nathan hurled the journal into the fireplace. The moment the flames licked the pages, the house screamed. The walls convulsed, the shadows writhed, and the air filled with a piercing wail of agony. The figure at the bottom of the stairs lurched forward, disintegrating into ash.
Nathan didn’t wait. He ran. The front door, once lost to the labyrinth, now stood open. He plunged into the night as the house behind him collapsed inward, swallowed by the darkness it had harbored for decades.
The Aftermath
Days later, Nathan sat at his desk, staring at his laptop screen. He wanted to write the story, to share the horror he had survived. But as he placed his fingers on the keyboard, a single thought clawed at his mind:
He had burned the journal.
But why did he still hear the whispers?
