The Watcher in the Dark

There was an old, broken-down house on the edge of town. No one ever wanted to go near it. People said it was haunted, and I’d always believed the stories. But one night, something made me stop in front of it.

The house stood there, quiet and still, with its windows cracked and its walls crumbling. The front door was open a little, like it was inviting me inside. I didn’t want to go in, but my feet moved on their own.

Inside, the air smelled musty, and the wooden floor creaked under my shoes. The curtains were ripped, swaying from the wind coming through the broken windows. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, flickering in the dark. The whole place felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

Then, in the far corner of the room, I saw something. At first, I thought it was just a shadow, but then I noticed a pale hand, gripping the doorway. It was hard to see clearly, but I knew someone—or something—was standing there.

A cold chill ran down my spine. I wanted to run, but I felt frozen in place. My heart pounded in my chest, and I could barely breathe.

Then, I heard it. A voice. Quiet, like a whisper, but clear enough to understand.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The words echoed in the empty house. But the voice didn’t come from the figure. It came from behind me.

I whipped around, but there was no one there. Just the empty, dark hallway.

That was it. I bolted for the door, ran outside as fast as I could, and jumped into my car. My hands shook as I started the engine and drove away, but I couldn’t stop looking in the rearview mirror. And that’s when I saw it again—through the window of the house, that same pale hand, pressed against the glass, watching me leave.

Even now, I try to tell myself it wasn’t real, that I was just tired and imagining things. But deep down, I know what I saw. And I know one thing for sure: that house is hiding something in the dark.

Some places aren’t meant to be explored.