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The Weeping Walls of Willow Creek

The Weeping Walls of Willow Creek

By Md. Sayhanul ArifPublished 15 days ago 3 min read
The Weeping Walls of Willow Creek
Photo by KAL VISUALS on Unsplash

## The Sobbing Walls of Willow River

The real estate agent fidgeted with a stack of polished leaflets, coughing nervously. "The previous owner mentioned something about...unexplained noises," she murmured, barely audible.

Ethan and Maya exchanged a look. Unexplained noises? That sounded less like a problem and more like an adventure. Young, brave, and perpetually broke, they saw the rundown Victorian on Willow River as a steal. Sure, the peeling paint and overgrown ivy gave it a gothic air, but with a bit of elbow grease, it could be charming.

The moment they stepped inside, an eerie silence descended. Dust particles floated in a beam of sunlight piercing through a boarded-up window. Floorboards creaked ominously under their tentative steps. In the grand foyer, a chipped porcelain doll stared blankly back at them, a single tear glistening on its cheek.

That evening, after unpacking boxes and trying to ignore the unsettling creaks and groans of the house, Maya woke to a strange sound. It was a low, mournful sobbing, seemingly emanating from within the very walls. She nudged Ethan awake, her heart pounding.

"Did you hear that?" she whispered, eyes wide with fear.

Ethan listened intently. The sobbing continued, a chilling melody that seemed to burrow deep into their souls. It ebbed and flowed throughout the night, growing louder with each passing hour.

Days turned into weeks, and the sobbing became a constant presence. They started noticing other things—flickering lights, objects inexplicably moved, and the smell of damp earth wafting up from the basement, a place the real estate agent had conveniently "forgotten" to show them.

Driven by a possibly unhealthy curiosity, Ethan and Maya decided to investigate the basement. The air hung thick and stale, and a single cobweb-laden bulb cast an eerie glow. The sobbing seemed amplified down here, a desperate plea from beyond the veil. In the corner, they found a dusty, ornately carved chest, hidden beneath a pile of neglected blankets.

Ethan pried it open, revealing delicate yellowed papers and a faded photograph. The photo showed a young woman with sorrowful eyes, clutching a doll that looked remarkably like the one in the foyer. The papers turned out to be a diary, penned by a woman named Amelia Thorne, the house's previous owner.

Amelia's diary chronicled a life of quiet despair. She wrote about a controlling, abusive husband and a desperate loneliness that permeated the very walls of the house. Entries ended abruptly, the last few pages filled with frantic scrawls about a struggle, a scream, and then silence.

A horrifying picture began to form in their minds. The sobbing, the unsettling presence—it was all Amelia, trapped within the walls, her voice echoing in her eternal prison. Sleep became a distant memory, replaced by nights spent huddled together, the diary entries replaying on a loop in their minds.

One night, the sobbing turned into a guttural scream, shaking the very foundation of the house. Books tumbled from shelves, and framed pictures crashed to the floor. In the flickering light, they saw a ghostly figure materialize in the hallway. It was Amelia, her form translucent and shimmering, tears streaming down her hollow face.

Panic seized Ethan. He grabbed Maya's hand, and they bolted for the front door, Amelia's anguished cries echoing behind them. They didn't stop running until they were miles away, breathless and shaken.

Newspapers reported the house fire the next day. The cause was uncertain, but the fire chief mentioned an "unusual phenomenon" they encountered while battling the blaze. No bodies were recovered, but rumors swirled about a ghostly woman seen sobbing at the windows.

Ethan and Maya left town, Amelia's diary a constant reminder of their harrowing experience. The house on Willow River, now a charred shell, stood as a grim monument to a life tragically cut short. Yet, even in death, when the wind whispers through the skeletal remains, some swear they can still hear the faint sound of sobbing, a mournful lament trapped within the sobbing walls of Willow River.


About the Creator

Md. Sayhanul Arif

Md Sayhanul Arif, a scholar with more than 10 years of involvement, changes complex thoughts into drawing in satisfaction.

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