For years, I walked past the old Victorian house at the end of Maple Street. It was as much a part of the neighborhood’s scenery as the towering oak trees and manicured lawns—a charming, if somewhat worn, piece of history that had stood long before any of us moved in.
The old lady who lived there, Mrs. Henderson, was a neighborhood fixture. Friendly but not overly so, she was the sort of elderly woman who always had a pleasant word but never invited anyone inside. Most of us assumed she was just private and perhaps a little lonely since her husband had passed away years before.
But there was always something a little… off. A chill breeze that seemed to linger just a few seconds too long when you passed her gate, the way the flowers in her garden were a hue darker than any others, or the way her cat, Mr. Whiskers, would glare at you with an almost human intelligence.
Then Mrs. Henderson died, quietly, in her sleep. The neighborhood gathered to give their condolences, and we thought that would be the end of the strange, uncomfortable feeling we got when we walked by the house.
But I was wrong.
A young family moved in—a couple with two kids. Emily and Tom seemed like the perfect tenants to breathe new life into the old house. They repainted, re-shingled, and did all the other “re-s” you do when you move into a place that’s more history than home. The house looked better, almost happy.
But slowly, the signs reappeared. The dark-hued flowers, the intelligent, malevolent stare from the now inexplicably returned Mr. Whiskers, and the chill breeze that seemed to whisper dread into your very soul. Emily looked increasingly harried, always tired, but whenever anyone asked, she’d just smile and say, “New house, you know how it is.”
One fateful evening, I found myself walking past their home. The curtain in the living room twitched just a hair, enough for me to notice but not enough to see who—or what—moved it. A sense of foreboding washed over me, as if a layer of darkness had brushed against my soul.
That’s when I saw him—or rather, it. Mr. Whiskers sat in the middle of the road, eyes locked onto mine, glowing an unnatural shade of green. He hissed, a sound so guttural and distorted it couldn’t possibly come from a cat, and in that moment, I knew something terrible was going to happen.
I rushed home, the dread boiling inside me, but what could I do? Call the police and say what? That I got a bad feeling from a cat?
That night, the screams started.
Not just any screams, but the sort of screams that are etched into the very fabric of the night, that make you question the fundamental goodness of the universe. They were Emily’s.
By the time the police arrived, it was too late. The house was empty. No signs of struggle, no signs of break-in. Emily, Tom, and their children were gone, just gone, as if swallowed by the house itself.
The only thing they found was Mr. Whiskers, sitting calmly in the living room, eyes glowing that same unsettling shade of green.
I avoid walking down Maple Street now, especially as night falls. But sometimes, when the air turns chill and the wind seems to whisper secrets not meant for human ears, I find myself staring at the old Victorian house, wondering if Mrs. Henderson was ever truly alone in there—and what the house plans to do now that it’s empty once more.
But the truly chilling part? A week after the disappearance, I received a letter in my mailbox with no return address. Opening it cautiously, I found a single photograph. It was a picture of me, taken from inside the Victorian house, staring out at the road.
And behind me, just a blurry shape in the darkness, was the silhouette of something not quite human.