The mansion stood on the outskirts of Hollow Creek, its silhouette a jagged wound against the darkening sky. Locals called it "The Howling House," though its true name, Blackwood Manor, was long forgotten. For decades, no one dared step foot past its rusted iron gates, not since the night it claimed its last victim. Yet, its reputation was undeniable: every night, at the stroke of midnight, the house screamed.
Samantha Pryce had heard the stories growing up, but as a seasoned urban explorer, she dismissed them as exaggerated folklore. Haunted houses were her specialty, and Blackwood Manor was the crown jewel she had yet to conquer. Armed with her flashlight, camera, and recorder, she vowed to spend the night inside and document the truth.
The air was unnaturally still as she approached the gates, her boots crunching on the gravel path. The mansion loomed before her, its windows like empty eyes watching her every move. Vines choked the crumbling walls, and the front door hung slightly ajar, as if inviting her inside.
"Piece of cake," Samantha muttered, pushing the door open. It groaned on its hinges, the sound echoing through the cavernous foyer. Dust motes danced in the weak beam of her flashlight, revealing an ornate staircase, tattered drapes, and broken furniture scattered like bones.
Hour One: Uneasy Welcome
Samantha set up her equipment in the main hall. Her recorder whirred to life, capturing the ambient silence. She narrated her observations into the camera, describing the faded opulence of the space. But as she moved deeper into the mansion, unease crept in.
Every sound seemed amplified: the creak of the floorboards, the distant rustle of fabric, the faint sigh of the wind slipping through cracks in the walls. And then, there was the low hum, so faint it could almost be mistaken for her imagination.
She froze in the dining room, her flashlight illuminating a long table draped in cobwebs. The hum grew louder, morphing into a guttural groan that seemed to emanate from the very walls. Samantha’s breath hitched as she spun around, the sound abruptly cutting off.
"Just the house settling," she whispered, her voice trembling. But the camera in her hands shook with her nerves.
Hour Three: The Voice
By midnight, the atmosphere had thickened, oppressive and stifling. Samantha sat on the grand staircase, reviewing her footage. She hadn’t caught anything unusual—until she played back a clip from the dining room.
In the recording, her voice narrated the scene, but beneath it was a chilling whisper:
Get out...
Her blood ran cold. The voice was low, guttural, and unmistakably not hers. She glanced around, her flashlight sweeping the darkness, but nothing moved.
And then it began.
The scream.
It started as a low wail, rising in pitch and intensity until it became a bone-rattling shriek that filled every inch of the mansion. Samantha clamped her hands over her ears, dropping her camera as the sound reverberated through her skull. It wasn’t just a noise; it was a presence, a force pressing down on her, suffocating her.
As abruptly as it started, the scream stopped. Samantha sat trembling, her ears ringing. The house fell silent again, but this time, the silence felt heavier, as if the air itself were holding its breath.
Hour Five: The Traps Close
Despite every instinct screaming at her to leave, Samantha pressed on. She needed proof. Retrieving her camera, she ventured upstairs, where the air grew colder with every step. The second floor was a maze of dark hallways and locked doors. The walls seemed to shift in her periphery, the corridors stretching longer than they should.
At the end of one hallway, she found a room with the door slightly ajar. Inside was a child’s nursery, untouched by time. A mobile of faded stars and moons hung from the ceiling, spinning slowly despite the absence of a breeze. A rocking chair creaked in the corner, moving on its own.
“Is someone here?” Samantha called, her voice barely above a whisper. Her flashlight flickered, and the chair stopped.
The scream returned, louder than before, shaking the very foundations of the house. Samantha stumbled back into the hallway, her vision swimming. The walls seemed to close in, the wallpaper peeling away to reveal pulsing veins beneath.
You shouldn’t have come... the voice growled, disembodied and everywhere at once.
The Final Hour
Samantha ran. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to get out. The house seemed to twist around her, the hallways looping back on themselves. Every door she opened led to the same room: the dining room, now filled with chairs positioned as if waiting for a meal.
The scream followed her, relentless and deafening. Her flashlight died, plunging her into darkness. She fumbled for her phone, its weak glow her only guide. The walls seemed alive, bulging and contracting like lungs. Faces appeared in the woodwork, their mouths open in silent screams.
In the center of the dining room, a figure stood. It was tall and gaunt, its skin stretched too tightly over its skeletal frame. Its mouth gaped open, the source of the unending scream. Samantha froze, her body paralyzed by fear as the figure stepped closer.
“Please...” she begged, tears streaming down her face.
The figure’s scream shifted, forming words that resonated deep in her chest:
Stay. You belong to us now.
The room dissolved into chaos. Furniture flew through the air, the walls cracking and oozing black ichor. Samantha’s vision blurred as the scream consumed her, the sound drilling into her skull until she collapsed.
The Aftermath
When Samantha woke, the mansion was silent. Her equipment was gone, her flashlight smashed. She stumbled out into the dawn light, the fog around the mansion dissipating. But the house no longer screamed.
Days later, when locals dared to approach the gates, they found no trace of Samantha Pryce. Only her camera remained, its last recording a static-filled clip of her face, her eyes wide with terror as a voice whispered:
The house always keeps what it takes.
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