The old house stood on a hill overlooking the town, its windows like vacant eyes staring into the darkness. Locals whispered stories about the family that had lived there, the Eldridges, who vanished without a trace one night, leaving behind only their possessions and an unsettling silence.
Sarah, a thrill-seeking college student, dismissed the tales as folklore. She convinced her friends to spend a night in the abandoned house, hoping to debunk the rumours and maybe find a good story for her blog. As they stepped inside, a chill permeated the air, and the scent of decay clung to the heavy silence.
They explored the dusty rooms, finding remnants of a life abruptly halted: teacups on a table, a half-finished game of chess, children's toys scattered on the floor. In the master bedroom, they found a journal. Its entries, penned in a frantic script, spoke of strange noises, shadows moving in the periphery, and a growing sense of dread. The last entry simply read, "It's watching."
As the night deepened, the house seemed to come alive. Floorboards creaked, whispers echoed through the hallways, and the temperature plummeted. They huddled together, fear gnawing at their resolve. Then, they heard it: a slow, deliberate scratching coming from the attic.
Ignoring their fear, Sarah led the group upstairs. The attic was pitch black, the air thick with dust. As she flicked on her flashlight, the beam landed on a figure hunched in the corner. It was tall and gaunt, its skin stretched taut over its bones, eyes glowing with an unnatural light. It smiled, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth.
A bloodcurdling scream tore through the silence as the figure lunged. The friends scattered, desperate to escape. Sarah stumbled, her flashlight falling to the floor, plunging them into darkness. She felt a cold hand grab her ankle, and a raspy voice whispered in her ear, "You shouldn't have come here."
Sarah never made it out of the house. The next morning, her friends recounted their harrowing tale to the authorities, but no one believed them. The house remained on the hill, its windows staring blankly into the town, waiting for its next victims. And sometimes, on quiet nights, you can still hear the scratching in the attic, a chilling reminder of the Eldridge family and the horror that dwells within their abandoned home.
Sarah, a thrill-seeking college student, dismissed the tales as folklore. She convinced her friends to spend a night in the abandoned house, hoping to debunk the rumours and maybe find a good story for her blog. As they stepped inside, a chill permeated the air, and the scent of decay clung to the heavy silence.
They explored the dusty rooms, finding remnants of a life abruptly halted: teacups on a table, a half-finished game of chess, children's toys scattered on the floor. In the master bedroom, they found a journal. Its entries, penned in a frantic script, spoke of strange noises, shadows moving in the periphery, and a growing sense of dread. The last entry simply read, "It's watching."
As the night deepened, the house seemed to come alive. Floorboards creaked, whispers echoed through the hallways, and the temperature plummeted. They huddled together, fear gnawing at their resolve. Then, they heard it: a slow, deliberate scratching coming from the attic.
Ignoring their fear, Sarah led the group upstairs. The attic was pitch black, the air thick with dust. As she flicked on her flashlight, the beam landed on a figure hunched in the corner. It was tall and gaunt, its skin stretched taut over its bones, eyes glowing with an unnatural light. It smiled, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth.
A bloodcurdling scream tore through the silence as the figure lunged. The friends scattered, desperate to escape. Sarah stumbled, her flashlight falling to the floor, plunging them into darkness. She felt a cold hand grab her ankle, and a raspy voice whispered in her ear, "You shouldn't have come here."
Sarah never made it out of the house. The next morning, her friends recounted their harrowing tale to the authorities, but no one believed them. The house remained on the hill, its windows staring blankly into the town, waiting for its next victims. And sometimes, on quiet nights, you can still hear the scratching in the attic, a chilling reminder of the Eldridge family and the horror that dwells within their abandoned home.
Support Nicola Botha
