The House That Never Sleeps

The town of Ravenshade lay nestled between dark, ancient forests, its streets lined with homes that seemed untouched by time. It was the kind of place where outsiders were noticed immediately, where secrets sat just beneath the surface, whispering to those who dared to listen.

Donald Albert wasn't here for sightseeing. He needed a place to stay, somewhere quiet where he could focus on writing his book-a collection of real-life haunted house stories.

He was also running.

After losing his job as a journalist, a mix of professional embarrassment and personal frustration pushed him toward this project. It was supposed to be a fresh start.

That was when he found the house.

Black Hollow Road, Number 46.

It was too cheap-almost laughably so for a house this size. A two-story Victorian-style home, complete with an attic and basement, sitting on an overgrown property with a rusting iron fence. The kind of place that looked like it had been forgotten.

Donald had seen too many horror movies to ignore the warning signs, but reality was never as dramatic. Houses were cheap for a reason-bad location, poor upkeep, or maybe just an old man looking to offload a property before he died.

He met Mr. Einstein, the landlord, at the house the next morning.

The old man was thin, pale, with a slight hunch in his posture. His dark suit looked a little too formal for a simple house viewing, and his hands trembled slightly as he unlocked the front door.

"You're sure you want this one?" Einstein asked, glancing at Donald with something between curiosity and concern.

"You're still renting it, aren't you?" Donald replied, shifting his bag on his shoulder.

"Yes," Einstein said. "But... it has a history."

Donald smirked. "That's kind of the point. I write about haunted places."

Einstein's lips tightened. "That so?"

"Yeah. Paranormal stories, urban legends. I figured this house might have a good story behind it."

Einsteins looked at him for a long moment, his eyes unreadable. Then, he handed Donald the key.

"If you hear noises at night," he said, voice low and deliberate, "do not investigate."

Donald raised an eyebrow.

"And never stay up past midnight."

A cold breeze drifted through the open doorway. Donald felt a shiver crawl up his spine.

Einstein gave a small, almost pitying smile before walking away.

Inside, the house was cleaner than expected but eerily lifeless. The furniture, though covered in dust, looked recently arranged, as if someone had been preparing for a guest.

The walls were a dull shade of gray, the floors old wood that creaked beneath his steps. There was a fireplace in the main living room, empty, but cold as if it had just been used.

The kitchen was functional but outdated, with a heavy, antique clock hanging on the wall. It wasn't ticking.

His bedroom upstairs was simple-a bed, a desk, a mirror mounted on the closet door. The mirror bothered him for no reason he could explain.

The worst part?

It was too quiet.

Even in an empty house, there was always some noise-wind against the windows, the hum of distant traffic. But here, in Black Hollow Road 46, the silence felt too thick, like a held breath.

It wasn't peaceful.

It was waiting.

---

First Night in the House

Donald unpacked, set up his laptop, and made himself at home.

At around 10:30 PM, he sat at his desk with a bottle of cheap whiskey, writing the introduction to his book.

"What makes a house haunted? Is it the memories of those who lived there, or something older, something deeper? We tell ourselves ghosts aren't real. But what if the house itself is alive?"

He exhaled. Too dramatic.

The air felt colder.

The antique clock in the kitchen-the one that wasn't ticking before-suddenly chimed once.

Donald glanced toward the doorway.

Then, from the hallway outside his room, came a sound.

A soft creak.

Like a footstep.

Donald froze, every instinct telling him that he wasn't alone.

The old landlord's words echoed in his mind.

"If you hear noises at night, do not investigate."

It was probably nothing-the house settling, an animal outside, maybe even the wind.

Still, he found himself slowly reaching for his phone, turning on the flashlight.

The hallway outside his room was empty.

But something felt off.

He walked toward the stairs and peered down. The living room below was dark, the fireplace a yawning black hole.

Then, just as he turned to go back-

A whisper.

Soft. Indistinct. Right behind him.

He spun around, heart hammering.

Nothing.

The hallway was empty.

Shaking his head, he let out a nervous laugh and went back into his room, locking the door behind him.

"Don't be paranoid, Donald."

But as he got into bed, he couldn't shake the feeling.

It felt like the house was watching him,

Morning After

Donald woke up groggy, his head heavy from last night's whiskey. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, and for a brief moment, the house felt normal.

Then, he noticed something.

His desk chair was moved-pulled out slightly.

And his notebook was open, though he was sure he had closed it.

Frowning, he went downstairs.

The front door was unlocked.

He distinctly remembered locking it the night before.

Donald stood still in the middle of the room, feeling his heartbeat in his throat.

Maybe he forgot. Maybe it was just his imagination.

Or maybe-

The house wasn't empty.

And then, from upstairs, he heard it.

A slow, deliberate creak.

Like a footstep.

Right outside his bedroom door.