The house was silent now, but the silence was thick with anticipation, as if the very walls were holding their breath. The air hung heavy with dread, and every creak of the old wooden floors sounded like a warning. The once peaceful country home that I had fallen in love with three years ago had turned into a nightmare I couldn’t wake from.
It started innocently enough—whispers in the dark, distant and faint, like echoes from a forgotten place. I’d lie awake at night, trying to dismiss the strange sounds, convincing myself it was just the house settling or the wind playing tricks. But as days turned into weeks, the whispers grew clearer, more insistent. I could hear them whispering my name, calling me from the shadows, and sometimes, I swore I caught glimpses of movement just beyond the corner of my eye.
Two weeks ago, everything spiraled out of control.
It began with the knocking.
Late at night, or sometimes in the quiet pre-dawn hours, a steady, relentless knocking would rattle the front door. I’d jump out of bed, heart pounding as I approached the door cautiously. Peering through the peephole, I’d see nothing—no one there. Just darkness. No footsteps, no shadows, just the hollow echo of the knocks reverberating in my mind.
I told myself it was probably a prank or some neighborhood kid messing around. But deep down, I knew better. The sense of unease grew stronger, more visceral. It was like the house itself was trying to tell me something I didn’t want to hear.
Then came the whispers.
They started as faint murmurs, barely audible, but soon they became a chorus of voices, whispering secrets I couldn’t understand. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, feeling the weight of unseen eyes pressing down on me. The whispers would grow louder, more urgent, and I’d hear something that chilled me to the bone: a child's voice, pleading.
“Let me in… please… someone help us…”
The voice was innocent, desperate—yet there was something wrong, something off. The tone was too perfect, too rehearsed, like a child reciting a line they’d been told to say. And then, the knocking resumed, more frantic, more insistent.
I started to feel watched, truly watched. My skin prickled with the sensation of unseen eyes lurking just outside my peripheral vision. I’d catch fleeting glimpses of movement—shadows darting behind the curtains, figures standing silently outside the windows—but whenever I looked directly at them, they vanished.
My nerves frayed. I began biting my nails again, a habit I had long since abandoned. The sick feeling in my stomach grew worse. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. The house felt alive, breathing, waiting.
Two nights ago, I lost it.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed the old brass key I kept hidden in a drawer and slowly, trembling, unlocked the front door. I hesitated before opening it, my hand trembling as I looked out into the dark night.
And there they were.
Two children—pale as porcelain, their skin almost glowing in the moonlight. Their eyes—oh, their eyes—black as voids, empty and soulless. The blonde-haired girl stared at me with a vacant, haunting expression. The boy, equally pallid, looked at me with a pleading gaze that seemed to pierce through my soul.
Frozen with terror, I slammed the door shut. I could hear their faint voices again, whispering behind the door, begging, pleading, crying.
But I knew I’d made a mistake.
They would come back.
And come back they did.
Now, I hear the scratching at the door—metal against wood, nails scraping, relentless. The voices have shifted. They’re no longer pleading. Now, they echo with malice, pure evil.
“Let us in,” they hissed. The voices are distorted, warped by something sinister. “Let us in… we need to come inside.”
I hear them outside, just beyond the window, lurking in the darkness, waiting. I can see them in my mind’s eye—those black eyes, staring through the glass, unmoving but alive with malevolence.
And then I saw one of them.
A figure standing in the hallway, just beyond the bathroom. For a moment, I thought I was imagining it. The air grew cold, and I could feel the darkness pressing in on me. It was a child, no doubt about it, but it was no child. Its face was devoid of emotion; its eyes—black and shiny—glinted in the faint light, reflecting my terror back at me. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, it faded away into the shadows, as if it had never been there.
I’m trapped now.
I can’t sleep. I can’t leave. The house feels alive with malevolent energy, and I swear I hear footsteps—slow, deliberate—just outside the walls. Sometimes, I think I hear whispers from the corners of every room, telling me I’m already too late.
I don’t know how much time I have left. The feeling that I’m running out of it is overwhelming, like sand slipping through my fingers. I feel like I’m teetering on the edge of something terrible, and I don’t know how to escape it.
All I know is that I’m writing this because I don’t think I’ll survive the night.
And if you’re reading this, beware.
The black-eyed children are real.
They’re waiting outside your door.
And they won’t stop until they get in.
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**End of story.**
