It was an old house, nestled deep in the New Hampshire woods, where locals whispered of ghostly happenings.
Sophie, a paranormal investigator with a soft spot for haunted places, was no stranger to eerie environments. Still, something about this house sent a shiver down her spine the moment she stepped inside.
The air was thick with mildew and secrets, and the floors groaned beneath her boots.
She glanced at her camera and noticed the battery had already drained—a classic sign of something lurking nearby.
The locals had told her about a family who once lived there, the Blackwoods, who had mysteriously disappeared fifty years ago. His face, they said, could sometimes be seen in the upstairs window, forever watching for something—or someone. Sophie headed straight for the stairs, heart pounding in rhythm with the creak's of the wood beneath her.
At the top, the narrow hallway stretched endlessly before her. She could feel eyes on her, prickling the back of her neck. But she kept moving, her flashlight flickering slightly.
As Sophie reached the end of the hallway, she opened the door to the master bedroom. Dust motes floated lazily through the air, illuminated by the weak sunlight filtering through the curtains. She made her way to the window where Amelia’s face was supposedly seen, pressing her hand against the cold glass.
Suddenly, in the reflection, she saw it—a pale figure standing behind her. She spun around, heart leaping into her throat. The room was empty.
Chilled, Sophie stepped back from the window. She could feel it now, a presence, lurking, waiting. The air seemed to thicken. Then, from behind her, she heard a deep voice whisper, "Turn around."
But Sophie had learned long ago not to trust every sound in haunted houses. She steeled herself, staring into the window’s reflection instead of turning.
And then she saw it—the figure wasn’t behind her anymore. It was her. The reflection of her own face had twisted, becoming something not quite human. The eyes—her eyes—were cold, staring back at her with a hunger she didn’t recognize.
Sophie blinked, but the reflection stayed twisted, unnatural. Panic surged as her mind tried to grasp what was happening. She turned to run, but her body wouldn’t move. Instead, the reflection smiled darkly, as if enjoying her fear.
Without warning, Sophie felt herself being pulled into the glass. It was no longer solid; it rippled like water, swallowing her whole. In the next moment, she was standing outside, looking back at the house.
Her heart raced in confusion as she turned to leave—but something stopped her. Her feet wouldn’t budge. Then she realized: she wasn’t outside the house.
She was in the window, looking out.
And from the doorway of the room, a new investigator had just arrived, camera in hand, oblivious to the woman forever watching from the upstairs window.
The new investigator, a young man named Jason, stepped cautiously into the house. He’d heard the same stories about the Blackwoods, and, more recently, about Sophie’s disappearance during her investigation. The locals warned him, but curiosity had always gotten the better of him. Besides, Jason had been doing paranormal research for years and never found anything truly conclusive. Tonight, he was determined to uncover the truth.
As he entered the house, a cold chill immediately enveloped him. His breath fogged in the damp air. Jason flicked on his flashlight, scanning the dusty living room. The house was eerily silent, save for the occasional creak of old wood settling.
Upstairs, trapped behind the glass, Sophie watched him. Her hand pressed against the window, trying to scream, trying to wave, but nothing moved. She felt like a shadow of herself, reduced to a faint reflection that would only show when no one was looking directly at the window.
Jason, oblivious to the watchful eyes above, began his investigation, moving through the first floor. His camera beeped once, a familiar sound—batteries draining too quickly. He muttered to himself but kept filming. Every so often, he glanced up the staircase, knowing where he would have to go eventually.
Sophie felt a desperate urge to warn him, to save him from the fate she suffered. But she was powerless. As Jason made his way to the staircase, a new sensation washed over her—something dark, lurking deeper in the house. Something not of this world, far older than Amelia Blackwood or any of the legends surrounding the place. The house wasn’t haunted by the spirit of a dead woman. It was the house itself—an ancient, malevolent force, trapping souls to feed on their fear, twisting their reflections to steal their identities.
Jason reached the top of the stairs. Sophie screamed in her mind, but the sound was swallowed by the glass. She banged her fists on the window, but nothing—no sound, no movement, no hope.
Jason opened the door to the master bedroom. The same dust motes floated in the weak sunlight, the same oppressive air pressing down. He approached the window, the very same window Sophie had once looked out of.
For a moment, his gaze flicked to the glass. And then, just for an instant, he saw her—Sophie’s distorted face, her eyes wide with terror.
“What the…?” Jason whispered, taking a step back.
But it was too late. The window rippled again, and just like before, Sophie’s reflection began to change. Her distorted face grinned—a cold, empty smile. Jason froze as the reflection shifted, the image twisting and warping until it looked exactly like him.
His heartbeat quickened as he backed away, horrified, but his feet wouldn’t move. The figure in the reflection stepped forward, reaching out. Then, with a sickening lurch, Jason felt himself being pulled toward the glass. He clawed at the air, trying to resist, but the force was too strong.
With one last desperate cry, Jason was sucked into the window, his body merging with the glass.
And then silence.
The reflection in the window smirked and turned, inspecting its new form. It was Jason now. The creature—whatever it was—had taken his place. It turned toward the door, ready to leave the house, to walk free once more, wearing the body of its latest victim.
But Sophie, still trapped in the window, could see something else—the true horror. Jason’s reflection was now standing beside hers, his eyes wide with fear, mirroring her own.
They were both prisoners of the house now, waiting, watching from the window, as the dark force prepared to lure in its next victim.
Outside, the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the forest. And somewhere nearby, someone else would soon hear the story of the mysterious old house and its haunting figures.
The house always waited.
It was never alone for long.
The Beginning of the House
Long before the house in the New Hampshire woods became infamous for its hauntings, it was just a plot of land—unremarkable, nestled among the trees, surrounded by untouched wilderness. But centuries ago, it was a sacred place, one the locals avoided with fearful reverence. They spoke of a presence there, a dark spirit connected to the land, a malevolent force that devoured the living and twisted their souls.
In the early 1700s, settlers arrived, unaware of the warnings. They were hardy folk, eager to carve out a life in the new world. One of them, a man named Silas Blackwood, claimed the land for his family. Ignoring the stories of the local wise ones, Silas built a large house on the hill—a place he believed would stand for generations.
From the start, strange things happened. Animals that wandered near the land would disappear. Crops would fail, despite being planted in fertile soil. Silas’s wife, Eliza, claimed she heard voices at night, whispering from the walls, calling her name. Silas, stubborn and pragmatic, dismissed it all as nonsense. He insisted the land was theirs, that they could tame it.
But Eliza knew something was wrong. One night, she awoke to a deep chill in the room. Silas was gone from their bed, and when she searched for him, she found him standing in the basement, staring at the walls, as if in a trance. His skin was cold, his eyes distant. When she shook him, he snapped out of it, but something in his eyes had changed. He never spoke of it again, but from that night on, he seemed to grow more distant, more erratic.
Then came the final night.
The family was awoken by a terrible sound, like wood being torn apart and the earth groaning beneath their feet. Silas, in a frenzy, rushed outside. Eliza and their two children followed him, only to find Silas standing in front of the house, staring at the ground as if transfixed. He mumbled something about "the roots beneath the house," that they had "awakened."
Suddenly, the ground trembled, and a deep, thunderous sound erupted from below. The family watched in horror as the very foundation of the house cracked, as if the earth itself was trying to swallow it whole. Silas began laughing, a sound that echoed through the forest, wild and unhinged. He turned to his family and spoke in a voice that was no longer his own.
“It belongs to the land now. It feeds.”
Eliza screamed for her children to run, but before they could escape, the house seemed to ripple, its very structure warping. The front door swung open on its own, and Silas was pulled inside by an invisible force. His laugh faded into a guttural scream, and then silence fell.
The house stood still.
Eliza, terrified, fled with her children. They never returned, and word spread quickly through the surrounding area. The Blackwood family disappeared, the house left standing, silent and brooding.
But something was different now.
In the years that followed, anyone who came near the house felt an oppressive, watchful presence. People who ventured too close would swear they saw movement in the windows, even though the house was abandoned. And then the disappearances began—travelers, hunters, even curious neighbors would go missing, only to be found days later, wandering in the woods with no memory of where they’d been or what had happened.
Over time, the house’s legend grew. Stories of faces in the windows, ghostly figures, and strange happenings spread through the region. No one dared to live there, but the house remained—unchanged, untouched by time, and waiting.
What no one knew was that the house had become something else entirely. Whatever dark force had been tied to the land had fused with the house itself. It wasn’t just a haunted home; it was a living entity, feeding on the souls it trapped, twisting their reflections, warping their realities. The force beneath the ground had awakened, and it had found a way to reach the surface—through the house, through the lives it stole, and through the faces it kept in the glass.
It wasn’t the spirits of the dead that haunted the house. It was the house itself, alive with the ancient, malevolent energy that had always been there, waiting for the day it could claim the living as its own.
Now, it waits for more.
Always watching from the window. Always waiting for the next soul to devour.
I hope you enjoyed this short story, created in the spirit of Samhain and Halloween! This is a fictional story and none of these things really happened. 😁 Enjoy! And happy Samhain!
Comments