Henderson House

one of those nights, you know? The kind of wind that was howling was too frightening, and the shadows seemed to be dancing with a mind of their own. My friend Mike and I were hanging out in the basement, watching horror movies and junk food like we always did on Friday nights.

"So, you've heard of Henderson's old place?" Mike asked between bites of popcorn.

"Yeah, that haunted house? Everyone's heard of it," I answered, rolling my eyes. "What is the problem?"

"No, bro, I mean I actually heard it. My cousin swore he saw something in there last week. He said he heard voices and saw lights flickering inside. And get this—it's sealed up, so there shouldn't be anyone in the. "

"You're kidding, right? Your cousin is just playing with you."

But Mike is serious. You can see it in his eyes. And of course, being thrill seekers, we couldn't possibly pass up the opportunity to see it. So, we grabbed some flashlights, got in my car, and headed over to Henderson's place.

The house is exactly as you imagine: old, dilapidated, and very scary. The windows were boarded up, the paint was peeling, and the yard was overgrown with weeds. We parked a little way down the street and snuck in the front door.

“This is a bad idea,” I muttered, but Mike had already pried one of the boards off the window.

With a loud creak, the plank came loose, and we squeezed through the gap. Inside, the condition of the house was even worse. Dust and cobwebs covered everything, and the air was thick and stale. We turned on our flashlights and started exploring.

Every floorboard creaked under our weight, and every shadow seemed to move out of the corner of our eyes. We walked through the living room and into the hallway. That's when we heard it—a low, barely audible whisper.

"Did you hear that?" Mike whispered, his eyes wide.

"Yes," I answered, my voice barely audible. “Maybe it's just the wind.”

We kept moving, but the whispers grew louder, clearer. It sounded like a conversation, but we couldn't understand the words. We followed the sound to a closed door at the end of the hall. Mike grabbed the doorknob, and I held my breath.

The door opened with a loud creak, revealing a room that seemed untouched by time. In the center stood a table with a candle burning brightly, although there was no one around to light it. The moment we stepped inside, the whispers stopped, replaced by a deafening silence.

And then the candle flickered and went out.

“Time to go,” I said, but as we turned to leave, the door slammed shut by itself. Panic set in as we pounded on the door, but it didn't budge. The whispers started again, louder this time, and it felt like they were right next to us.

Mike shone his flashlight around the room, and that's when we saw them—dimly visible people, their eyes glowing in the darkness. They approached us, their whispers now a cacophony of voices.

Suddenly, the door opened, and we ran out of there, not stopping until we got back to my car. We jumped in, locked the doors, and drove away, our hearts pounding.

Neither of us said a word on the way home. It wasn't until we were safely back in the basement that Mike finally spoke.

“Never again,” he said, his face pale. "Will no longer."

I nodded in agreement. There are some things that are better left alone, and Henderson's place is definitely one of them.