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Strange noises


By Michael StephensPublished 6 days ago 6 min read
Strange noises
Photo by Sergiu Baica on Unsplash

The old house remained toward the finish of Willow Road, covered in murkiness and secret. It was a spot the townsfolk murmured regarding in quieted tones, where bizarre events were said to occur. It had been deserted as far back as I could recall, yet I had forever been attracted to it, as though some undetectable power was pulling me closer.

One miserable night, as the sun plunged underneath the skyline, creating long shaded areas across the road, I chose to examine the house. I had been hearing abnormal commotions in the neighborhood of late, clamors that couldn't be quickly made sense of. Strides reverberating at an ungodly hour, murmurs conveyed by the breeze, and ghostly giggling that creeped me out. The time had come to uncover the wellspring of these agitating sounds.

The air was thick with expectation as I moved toward the overwhelming house. Its windows were blocked, and the paint on its endured walls was stripping away like the skin of a snake shedding its old self. Ivy had guaranteed the exterior, folding over the house like a bad habit. The way prompting the front entryway was congested, and I needed to shove to the aside tangled plants and prickly brambles to arrive at it.

With shaking hands, I pulled the rusted door handle, and the entryway squeaked open with a distressed moan. A whirlwind air welcomed me, and I ventured inside, my heart beating in my chest. The lobby was faintly lit, the backdrop blurred and torn. The main wellspring of light was a weak shaft that sifted through a wrecked window.

As I wandered further into the house, I really wanted to see the odd markings on the walls. They were by all accounts an old images of some kind or another, carved into the wood with accuracy. Maybe the actual house was alive, addressing me in a language I was unable to understand. I shivered, yet my interest pushed me forward.

The abnormal commotions that had tormented the area appeared to become stronger as I investigated further. Murmurs moved on the edge of my hearing, and I had very strong suspicions I heard my name being called from far off rooms. I faltered, not entirely settled to uncover reality.

My process drove me to the storm cellar entryway, which stood somewhat slightly open. The murkiness underneath appeared to swallow the weak light from my electric lamp. I slid the squeaking steps, each step repeating unfavorably neglected, sodden space.

The storm cellar was a maze of thin halls and secret chambers. The walls were fixed with racks loaded up with containers of peculiar substances, and the air was thick with the aroma of rot. Somewhere far off, I heard the sound of dribbling water, yet it was something different that sent a chill down my spine — the sound of delicate, forlorn sobbing.

I followed the sound, my spotlight slicing through the haziness like an encouraging sign. It drove me to a little, austere room toward the finish of a tight hall. The crying became stronger as I drew nearer, and my heart hurt with compassion toward the wellspring of that distress.

The room was unfilled, save for a disintegrating wooden den in the middle. Inside, wrapped up in worn out covers, lay a pale, delicate looking youngster. Its eyes were shut, and its little clench hands gripped in misery. It was the wellspring of the sobbing, and I was unable to comprehend the reason why a youngster would be abandoned in this spurned spot.

I contacted touch the youngster, however my hand went through maybe it were made of fog. Fear held me as I understood that the youngster was not genuine, that it was a ghost, a ghost of some shocking past. The room became colder, and the sobbing strengthened, consuming the space with a feeling of depression.

I staggered out of the room, my heart hustling, and followed my means through the complex storm cellar. The weird commotions became stronger, and I felt as though I were being watched by concealed eyes. The images on the walls appeared to beat with an evil energy, and I realize that I had coincidentally found something outside my ability to grasp.

As I rose the cellar steps, I heard a progression of boisterous, deafening bangs from a higher place. Maybe something were attempting to break liberated from its limits. Alarm flooded through me, and I surged toward the wellspring of the commotion.

I burst into a room on the subsequent floor, and my breath trapped in my throat. The room was loaded up with a whirling, supernatural fog, and at its middle stood a figure, tall and shadowy. Its eyes shined with a scary, noxious light, and it appeared to coax me closer.

I attempted to withdraw, however an undetectable power held me set up. The figure lifted a skeletal hand, and the walls of the room appeared to surround me, squeezing against my chest. I panted for air, battling against the severe haziness.

In a voice that reverberated with the heaviness of hundreds of years, the figure talked, its words sending a chill down my spine. "You shouldn't have come here, mortal. This house is a jail for spirits like yours, drawn by interest and caught by their own longings."

I battled against the stifling hold of the room, my vision swimming. "What is it that you expect from me?" I figured out how to heave.

The figure inclined nearer, its breath frigid against my skin. "Your apprehension, your despondency, your quintessence," it murmured. "We feed on it, support ourselves on the feelings of the living. You will be one more lost soul in this detestable house, everlastingly tortured by the abnormal commotions that encompass you."

With that, the figure delivered its hang on me, and I staggered in reverse, heaving for breath. The room got back to its not unexpected express, the fog scattering immediately and inexplicably. However, the pernicious presence remained, watching me with hungry eyes.

I escaped the house, my heart beating, and never thought back. The unusual clamors that had tormented the area were as of now not a secret to me. They were the calls of the lost spirits detained inside that detestable house, spirits like mine, attracted by interest and everlastingly caught in a universe of timeless torture.

As I left Willow Road, I really wanted to consider the number of others had been baited by the bizarre commotions, the number of had wandered into the dimness and stayed away forever. The house remained as a quiet sentinel, an inauspicious indication of the detestations that hid just past the domain of our comprehension.

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About the Creator

Michael Stephens

I am a passionate and motivated story writer with a unique ability to captivate and engage readers. Through my words, I have the power to transport people to different worlds and inspire them to explore the depths of imagination.

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  • Alex H Mittelman 6 days ago

    Good job!

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