The old house remained on a slope sitting above the town, its windows like empty eyes gazing out into the unending nightfall. Everybody knew the narratives. Murmurs of the family that evaporated, the chilling drafts that appeared to convey murmurs, the agitating sensation of being observed in any event, when alone. I, obviously, didn't trust them. I was an objective man, an essayist looking for motivation, and the Blackwood House, as it was known, was the ideal setting.
I sunk into the dusty library, the air thick with the fragrance of rot and failed to remember things. Daylight attempted to infiltrate the grime-shrouded windows, projecting long, moving shadows that pulled pranks on my eyes. As I composed, a chill further than the night's infringing cold settled over me. The wood planks squeaked underneath my feet, each step reverberating through the quiet house like a spooky footfall.
Out of nowhere, a sound, faint from the get go, arrived at my ears. A delicate, cadenced tapping. Tap... tap... tap... It was by all accounts coming from the room above. Interest, that horrendous defect of ghastliness heroes, pushed me up the squeaking flight of stairs.
The tapping became stronger as I arrived at the arrival. It was coming from the keep going room on the corridor, a room whose entryway hung somewhat slightly open. Reluctantly, I pushed it open.
The room was uncovered, save for a solitary, antique rocker situated in the middle. Tap... tap... tap... The sound was obvious at this point. It was the armchair, moving to and fro, as though involved. In any case, the room was vacant.
My breath hitched. I let myself know it was the breeze, a draft, everything except what my frightened psyche was shouting. I stepped back leisurely, my eyes fixed on the recliner. Tap... tap... tap... It proceeded with its ghostly dance.
Then, I saw it. A weak framework, a sparkling clarity, started to emerge in the seat. It was the state of a lady, her head bowed, her long, dull hair clouding her face. Tap... tap... tap... The shaking proceeded, and as the figure turned out to be more characterized, I could hear a delicate, distressed murmuring.
Alarm held onto me. I went to escape, yet as I arrived at the entryway, the lady in the recliner lifted her head. Her face, however still somewhat concealed by her hair, was turned towards me. Also, I saw her eyes. They were vacant attachments, dark and empty, igniting with an old noxiousness that chilled me deep down.
A voice, rough and whispery, reverberated through the room. "You shouldn't be here," it murmured.
I staggered back, stumbling over my own feet. As I fell, I saw the lady ascend from the rocker. She made a stride towards me, her otherworldly hand connecting...
And afterward, everything went dark.
They tracked down me the following morning, oblivious on the floor of the library. They said I had swooned. They didn't completely accept that my anecdote about the armchair, the tapping, the lady. They said it was only my creative mind, filled by the unpleasant air of the house.
In any case, I understand what I saw. What's more, now and again, late around evening time, when the breeze yells outside my window, I hear it. Tap... tap... tap... What's more, I know she's actually something else, pausing.