Random Horror Stories - 500

Patrick sat in his armchair, the fire crackling in the hearth, but it did nothing to warm the room. The house had grown colder over the years, and tonight, it felt like it was creeping closer. The walls creaked, the floorboards groaned under his weight, but he ignored it. He'd grown used to it.

He used to tell himself it was just the house, just the old timbers settling. But it wasn't. Patrick had lived here long enough to know the difference. He could feel something else, something far worse than the house's slow decay.

Outside, the wind howled, but the sound never quite reached the windows. It was always a little muffled, like the air itself didn't want to be heard. The trees in the garden swayed, their limbs creaking with each gust, like they were trying to speak too.

Patrick had lived in this house for fifty years. His wife, Anne, had died in it, the place echoing her final breaths. Their children, long gone to other countries, never visited. They had their own lives to live. Patrick didn't care about their absence. It was better this way.

It was better when it was just him and the house.

He stared at the fire, watching the flames flicker, trying not to think about the noise. It started soft, like the scratching of nails on stone, then louder, almost like someone—or something—scraping a fingernail across glass.

"Don't be a fool," Patrick muttered, slapping his hand on the armrest. The noise didn't stop. It never did.

He stood, his legs aching as he made his way down the hallway. The house had always been dark, but tonight it felt different. Every step was slower, as though the floor was resisting him, unwilling to let him go further.

In the corner of the hallway, just out of the reach of the dim light, he saw it. A figure, too tall for the space, its limbs too long. The thing wasn't entirely solid, but it wasn't a trick of the light.

Patrick's heart pounded as he took a step back, but the figure took one toward him. The house didn't make the usual sounds now. No creaking floorboards or groaning walls. The silence was too much. His breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to back away.

Then, it spoke. The voice was low, far too low, like it had crawled from beneath the earth itself. "You should have left," it whispered, its breath cold against his face. "She wanted you to leave."

Patrick turned and ran, stumbling over his own feet, but the hallway seemed longer now. Every door he passed was closed, but the rooms behind them felt open, inviting, waiting.

He reached the kitchen, grabbing a knife from the drawer. His hands trembled, but the figure didn't stop. It followed him, a weightless presence that dragged itself behind him, each step sinking into the floor.

Patrick's breath hitched as he turned. The thing was standing in the doorway. It was smiling now, its mouth too wide, stretching, as though it had never known the word "pain."

"You didn't listen," it hissed.

Patrick screamed as the figure lunged, its hands reaching for him. The last thing he saw was its face—Anne's face. But it wasn't Anne. It couldn't be. It didn't have her warmth, her kindness. It was cold, empty, like the house.

The knife slipped from his hand. There was no fight left. No strength in his body.

The thing dragged him into the dark, pulling him into the place where the house had claimed so many before him.

When morning came, the house was still, silent. The kitchen was empty. No sign of Patrick, just a chair tipped over and a knife on the floor, covered in blood.

And the wind still whispered, as it always had.