The Whitlock House

On the edge of the woods, in the quiet, abandoned village of Broken Arrow, stood an old, run-down mansion. The residents referred to it as the Whitlock House, after the family who had vanished inexplicably fifty years ago Ever since, the mansion had been abandoned; its once-grand front was now covered in ivy and ruin. Still, whispers of its eerie past hung in the air, alerting anybody who ventured to listen.

For her next piece, young journalist Sarah who enjoys revealing the truth behind local tales chose to look at the Whitlock House. She was resolved to expose the reality behind the Whitlock family's disappearance and refute the rumors. Equipped with a journal, a camera, and a flashlight, she explored the estate just as the sun sank below the horizon, creating long, sinister shadows across the grounds.

The mansion's inside air smelled strongly of mold and rot. Every stride Sarah made on the squeaky wooden planks reverberated through the empty hallways, accentuating the terrible quiet. She sensed an uncomfortable presence as she toured the property, as though she could be observed by invisible eyes. But Sarah dismissed her worries, ascribed them to her active imagination.

Under the low light of her flashlight, Sarah found a dusty old diary stashed in a study drawer. The journal belongs to family matriarch Lydia Whitlock. As Sarah started to read, her heart pulsed with thrill in search of hints about what had happened to the Whitlocks.

The journal entries began innocuously enough, chronicling the family's daily life. But as Sarah read further, the tone of the entries darkened and became more frenzied. Lydia wrote of unusual events in the house—whispers in the night, eerie apparitions, and a sense of dread that seemed to penetrate into their very souls.

The last visit was quite eerie: "July 14, 1974"

The home moves. It nourishes our sadness and anxiety. It whispers in my ear and is burrowing under my skin. It seeks to eat us, to take our souls. For us, I worry it's too late. Please burn this house to the ground if someone reads this. It cannot call for another victim.

As Sarah closed her book, a cold sensation crawled her spine. The room's temperature suddenly fell, and the flashlight wavered. Breath in short, terrified gasps, Sarah heard the gentle, sneaky whispers Lydia had described. The voice seemed to be a chorus of tormented souls imprisoned in the house's walls, everywhere and nowhere.

"You shouldn't have come here," the hissed voices said. You belong to us right now.

Though her legs felt like lead, Sarah tried to run. Her surrounds started to throb and writhe, as though the house itself were alive and closing in on her. The muttering got louder, more insistent, and images of suffering filled her head. She reached out to the Whitlocks, their vacant eyes and mouth contorted in wordless moans calling for escape.

Desperate, Sarah staggered down the hallways in quest of a leave-off. The home seemed to move and morph, ensnering her in a never-ending maze of hopelessness. Her illumination failed, throwing her into night. She could sense the walls closing in the dark black, the voices getting louder and more sinister.

Sarah's blood ran cold as she heard, suddenly, high-pitched, terrible laughing of children booming across the darkness. She turned and saw them—pale, ghostly images of youngsters with empty eyes and dark smiles. Their laughter grew louder and more hysterical as they moved closer her.

Not at all! Avoid me! Backing into a corner, Sarah yelled. Still, the kids kept moving forward, their laughter blending with the guttural cries of invisible animals.

At last she was at the basement, where the miasma was suffocatingly thick. Made of the tortured, suffering souls the house had eaten throughout the years, a hideous, pulsing heart stood in the middle of the chamber. It moved gently, regularly, like though she were savoring her fear.

Reaching for the heart with last of her might, Sarah hoped to shatter it and stop the dream. But her fingers reached its surface, and the voices yelled in delight while a terrible agony raced through her body. Her soul joined the accumulation of perpetual suffering the heart absorbed.

The suffering seemed intolerable. Pulled into the heart, Sarah felt her bones shattering, her body burning, and her thoughts splitting. Her cries resounded through the mansion's hallways, augmenting the chorus of the doomed.

The villagers of Broken Arrow discovered the home as they usually had—silent and foreboding—next morning. Sarah vanished and her absence added to the sinister myth around the Whitlock House. The murmurs persisted, waiting for the next inquisitive soul to enter its grasp, to feed the house's ravenous appetite for suffering and sorrow.

The Whitlock House watched the town from its windows like eyes as the sun sank. The residents avoided it, yet they could still hear the murmurs on the wind—the echoes of the lost souls caught within. Ever hungry, the home waited for its next victim, ready to claim another soul and augment its hideous collection of continuous suffering.