The Hollow House

The old house on Willow Street had stood abandoned for years. Windows boarded up, the door sagging on its hinges, and the garden overtaken by weeds. Most people in town avoided it. They said it was cursed. No one could remember exactly who had lived there or why they left, but everyone knew it wasn’t a place anyone should go.

Except for Tom.

He didn’t believe in curses. He didn’t believe in ghosts.

When he saw the house, the idea of exploring it intrigued him. After all, what harm could it do? It was just an old house, right?

One evening, he found himself standing in front of the sagging porch, flashlight in hand. His heart raced, excitement mingling with an unfamiliar unease. The air smelled of mildew and decay.

The door creaked as he pushed it open.

Inside, the house was still, the only sound the creaking of the floorboards beneath his boots. The air was thick, cold, and oppressive. Dust hung in the air, and the faint smell of old furniture mixed with something else—something rancid.

As he wandered through the rooms, he noticed strange things. Paintings on the walls, but their faces scratched out. Mirrors covered with cloth. An old rocking chair that creaked even though no one was sitting in it.

Tom shook his head, dismissing it all as nothing but old superstition. Still, something felt off.

He pushed deeper into the house, heading toward the stairs. The staircase groaned under his weight, the wood creaking in protest. The hallway above was dark, the air heavier, more oppressive.

As he reached the top, he noticed a door at the end of the hall, slightly ajar. It wasn’t on the floor plan he had seen before—the house had no record of this room. But curiosity tugged at him.

He walked toward it, his footsteps echoing in the silence. As he pushed open the door, a chill ran down his spine.

The room was small, dark, and bare, except for a large wooden chest sitting in the center. Dust had collected on it, but it was the only thing in the room that seemed to have been untouched by time.

Tom approached cautiously. The chest was old, the wood chipped and cracked. A thick chain was wrapped around it, but it was rusted and brittle.

He knelt down and tried to pry it open.

The moment his fingers touched the lid, the air in the room shifted. The temperature dropped sharply, and the lights flickered.

A whisper brushed against his ear—low, almost inaudible.

“Leave.”

Tom jerked back, but the voice persisted, this time louder. “Get out.”

He stood, panic rising in his chest, but the room felt… wrong. The walls seemed to close in, the floor beneath him vibrating with some unseen force. The chest rattled, as though something inside was trying to break free.

Without thinking, Tom turned and bolted for the door.

But as he reached the hallway, he stumbled to a stop. The stairs had vanished. The door at the end of the hall slammed shut.

There was no escape.

Tom turned back, his heart pounding. The chest was now open, but it was empty.

Except for the shadow standing inside.

It was tall, its form too tall, its features blurred and shifting. Its eyes glowed faintly—green, then red, then black—and its mouth stretched into a wide, twisted grin.

“Help me,” the voice from before whispered, but now it was deeper, echoing from everywhere at once. “Help me out.”

The shadow stepped forward. Tom backed away, but the walls of the house pressed in on him, cutting off his path. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

The figure’s grin widened. “You shouldn’t have come.”

Tom screamed as the house seemed to swallow him whole, the door slamming shut with a deafening thud.

The next day, the house stood silent again. But from the windows, anyone who looked close enough would see a faint outline—Tom’s face—pressed against the glass, his eyes wide with terror.

And if you listened closely, you could hear a faint whisper, one that would send chills down your spine: “Help me.”