The House on Whisper Hill
It crouched on the crest of Whisper Hill, a skeletal frame against the bruised dusk. The paint peeled like sunburnt skin, windows gaped like empty eye sockets, and vines wove a choking blanket over its groaning bones. My heart hammered against my ribs, urging me to turn back, but morbid curiosity held me rooted to the spot.
I pushed open the rusted gate, its hinges screaming a rusty protest. The overgrown garden whispered secrets in the wind, each rustle a skeletal fingernail scraping against my nerves. The porch floor splintered under my tread, each moan a chilling welcome. Stepping through the warped front door, I entered a cavernous maw of dust and shadows.
Cobwebs festooned the cracked chandelier, casting dancing shadows on the moldering wallpaper. A ghostly waltz of whispers played on the dead air, rising from the depths of the house like a chorus of long-forgotten voices. Each room I passed whispered forgotten names, each groan of the floorboards a whispered plea for silence.
I stumbled upon a room bathed in moonlight, a nursery frozen in time. A rocking horse sat still, a lullaby faintly echoing in my ears. I reached out, fingers brushing a ghostly rocking motion before a sudden draft chilled me to the bone. The lullaby abruptly cut off, replaced by a low, guttural growl that seemed to rise from the floorboards themselves.
Panic flooded me. I bolted, the floorboards screaming protests beneath my pounding feet. Every shadow stretched into a lurking horror, every groan of the house a hungry scream. As I burst through the front door, the air tasted like freedom, the whispers fading into the moans of the wind.
But as I stood panting on the hilltop, I swear I saw a flicker of movement in the attic window, a pale face contorted in rage. And the faintest echo of the nursery lullaby, now laced with a chilling malice, carried on the wind, promising that the horrors of the house on Whisper Hill would stay with me, long after I had left.
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