In the sleepy town of Ash Hollow, everyone knew about the Wrenmore House. It sat at the end of a crumbling road, choked by blackened trees and an everlasting mist that never lifted, even in the brightest parts of summer. Parents told their children it was haunted, but not the way ghost stories usually went. Wrenmore House wasn’t merely inhabited by something—it was something.
Locals said the house could see you.
It started with the windows. They weren’t broken or boarded like other abandoned houses; they were clean, almost polished, as if they wanted you to see inside—or worse, for something inside to see out. Some swore they could feel a pressure behind the glass, a weight that watched with a cold patience.
Every few years, someone disappeared near Wrenmore. A hiker. A lost traveler. A reckless teenager on a dare. The police always found the same thing: a car left running on the roadside, a trail of footprints leading up to the front door—and then nothing. No struggle. No trace. As if the earth itself had swallowed them whole.
But the most terrifying stories came from those few who made it back.
They spoke of strange sounds: the floorboards breathing, the doorknobs twitching like muscles under skin. Mirrors didn’t reflect their images properly—sometimes they saw themselves move when they hadn’t, smiling at something just over their shoulder. Others described the walls shifting subtly, trapping them inside a labyrinth of halls that hadn’t been there before.
And always, always, the sensation of being studied—not by a ghost, not by a spirit, but by the house itself, alive in a way that defied understanding. A predator disguised as wood and stone, waiting for those who dared to step inside.
Wrenmore House wasn’t cursed by a tragedy. It wasn’t a burial ground or the site of a terrible murder.
It was simply born wrong.
Now, even the bravest locals avoid the hill altogether. They say the house is growing hungry again. Lights have been seen flickering behind the windows at night. Strange music, faint but unmistakable, drifts on the wind.
And worst of all: new footprints have appeared, leading up to the door.
This time, they are too small to belong to an adult.
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