The House That Calls
The town of Ashford was like any other—quiet, unassuming, the kind of place where nothing extraordinary ever happened. It was nestled between rolling hills and thick forests, the kind of town where everyone knew everyone, and secrets rarely stayed buried. But there was one place that no one spoke of above a whisper. A house that had stood on Blackthorn Hill for over a century, rotting and forgotten, yet somehow always watching. Blackthorn House. It had been abandoned for decades, ever since the Grayson family disappeared overnight, leaving their dinner half-eaten and their beds still warm. Some said they had been murdered, their bodies hidden within the walls. Others claimed they had walked away, vanishing into the woods, never to be seen again. But the children of Ashford told darker tales—of a house that breathed, whispered, and called to those who dared step too close. Daniel Monroe never believed in ghost stories. He was a journalist, a man of reason. Superstition held no place in his life, but a good story did. When he first heard the murmurs of Blackthorn House, he dismissed them as small-town gossip. But something about the house gnawed at him, an itch in his mind that wouldn’t go away. Perhaps it was the way the townspeople avoided speaking of it, the way their eyes darted away whenever he asked too many questions. Or maybe it was the dreams—the strange, vivid dreams of a house that seemed to know his name. So, one autumn evening, as the sun bled into the horizon, he found himself standing before the towering house, notebook in hand. The windows were like dead eyes, the front door slightly ajar as if it had been waiting for him. The whisper was louder now, curling around his ears, sliding into his thoughts. He hesitated, but only for a moment. Then, he stepped inside. The air was thick, suffocating. Dust swirled in the golden light filtering through the cracked windows. Furniture, draped in white sheets, loomed like ghostly figures. He clicked on his flashlight, the beam slicing through the gloom. The whisper turned into words. Daniel… you came back. His breath hitched. He swung the flashlight wildly, but the house remained still. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. No one knew he was here. No one—except whatever was inside this house. The staircase groaned as he ascended, the wooden steps sagging beneath his weight. He found the master bedroom untouched—faded wallpaper peeling, the bed neatly made. But the vanity mirror was different. As he approached, his reflection twisted. His eyes darkened, his mouth curled into a smile that he did not make. Then the image spoke, though its lips never moved. You were here before. A jolt of cold terror gripped him. He had never set foot in this house before tonight—had he? The whispering voice filled his head now, no longer soft, but urgent. You have always been here. The walls trembled. A shadow detached itself from the corner, pooling into something solid. Daniel stumbled back, his flashlight flickering. A woman emerged—pale, with hollow eyes and a stitched-shut mouth. Her fingers twitched, reaching for him. Memories crashed into him like a flood. The Graysons’ disappearance. The hushed town. The truth buried beneath layers of forgotten time. He had been here before. He had lived here. He had died here. “No,” he whispered, stepping back, but the house swallowed his voice. The floor beneath him softened like flesh, the walls pulsed like a beating heart. He turned to run, but the doorway was gone. A mirror stood in its place, his reflection staring back at him—only now, his mouth was stitched shut, his eyes pleading for escape. The house had called him home. And it would never let him leave. The light from his flashlight sputtered, its glow fading as the room darkened. Shadows lengthened, stretching toward him like hungry hands. Daniel clawed at the walls, searching for a crack, a hidden door—anything to free him from the nightmare tightening its grip. But the house had no intention of letting him go. A cold wind swept through the room, though there were no open windows. The whispering grew louder, merging into an eerie chant. Daniel… stay with us… Daniel… you are home… The voices layered over each other, some familiar, some unrecognizable, all pressing against his skull like the weight of forgotten memories. Then he saw them. Figures began to emerge from the dark corners of the room, translucent yet distinct. The Grayson family. Their eyes were hollow pits of blackness, their faces frozen in expressions of terror. The mother clutched a child to her chest, her arms skeletal, skin stretched thin. The father stood behind her, his mouth moving soundlessly, lips forming words Daniel could not hear. Something cold touched his shoulder. He spun around, heart hammering, only to come face-to-face with his reflection—only it wasn’t him anymore. The figure in the mirror had no eyes, no mouth, only a gaping, endless void where a face should be. It raised a hand, fingers curling into a fist before slamming against the glass. Crack. The mirror splintered, fractures spreading like veins across the surface. The house shuddered, a deep groan reverberating through the walls. Daniel fell to his knees as the ground beneath him trembled, his screams swallowed by the growing cacophony of voices. You have always been here. The mirror shattered. Darkness consumed him. Days turned to weeks. The town spoke in hushed tones about the strange new legend of Blackthorn House. Some claimed they saw a shadow moving behind the windows at night. Others swore they heard whispers when they passed by. One evening, a group of teenagers dared each other to step inside. They laughed, flicking on their flashlights, and calling out into the emptiness. But when they reached the master bedroom, their laughter died. A mirror stood there, untouched by dust, gleaming in the dim light. And within its glass, a shadow loomed. It raised a hand, fingers pressing against the glass from the inside. Mouth stitched shut. Eyes pleading for escape. But the house never let anyone leave. Then, one night, a candle flickered to life in the master bedroom window. The whispering started again, soft at first, then insistent. Someone else was coming. And the house was waiting. Credit: Alex Corneth Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.