Scary stories I wrote

Whispers of Gallow's Street

The old house at the end of Gallow's Street had always been avoided. Its crooked windows stared blankly like soulless eyes, and its doors hung slightly ajar, as if waiting for something-or someone. Ivy crawled over the crumbling bricks, suffocating the life from the building, and a perpetual fog clung to the ground, even on the clearest nights. No one knew why it felt wrong, only that it did.

One rainy October evening, out of foolish curiosity, a young man named Luke decided to step inside. The town was small, and he had heard the whispers his whole life: stories of people who entered and were never the same, tales of eerie voices echoing from the basement. But Luke was skeptical. He didn't believe in ghosts or curses.

As he approached the house, the air seemed to grow colder, the rain chilling his skin. The door creaked open wider, almost in welcome. His heart pounded, but he forced himself to step inside.

The floorboards groaned beneath his weight, and a damp, moldy smell filled the air. His flashlight flickered weakly, casting long shadows that danced along the cracked walls. The house seemed to sigh, the wood bending and settling as though it were alive. Each room he passed was filled with a strange silence, heavy and suffocating, as if the very walls were holding their breath.

But then, from the top of the stairs, came a sound: faint footsteps, soft and deliberate. Luke froze, his breath catching in his throat. He listened, his body tense, as the footsteps grew louder, descending the staircase with slow, deliberate steps. He aimed his flashlight toward the stairs, but the light seemed to dissolve into the darkness, swallowed by an unnatural blackness.

The sound stopped, just at the edge of his vision. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Something was watching him.

"Hello?" he called, his voice barely above a whisper. The word echoed back to him, distorted and faint.

And then he heard it. A low, rasping voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. "Leave."

Luke's heart pounded in his chest. He took a step back, but the door he'd entered through slammed shut with a deafening bang. The temperature dropped again, and his breath came out in white clouds. The shadows in the corners of the room began to shift, twisting unnaturally, coiling and stretching toward him.

Panic gripped him as he backed away, the walls seeming to close in. Suddenly, the whispering began. Soft, unintelligible voices filled the room, hissing, crying, pleading. His flashlight flickered again and went out, plunging him into absolute darkness.

In the blackness, something moved. Not footsteps now-something dragging, scraping across the floor. His pulse thundered in his ears as the sound grew nearer. A cold, damp hand brushed against his arm, and he jerked away, stumbling over debris scattered on the floor.

Frantic, he scrambled toward the window, clawing at the boards nailed over the glass. Behind him, the whispering grew louder, the words becoming clear. "Stay... with us."

Luke felt the air grow thick, pressing against him, slowing his movements as if the house itself was holding him back. His fingers were slick with sweat as he ripped at the boards. He glanced over his shoulder and saw them-shadowy figures emerging from the walls, their hollow faces twisted in silent screams.

With a final, desperate heave, Luke broke through the window and tumbled into the wet grass outside. He didn't stop running until he was far from Gallow's Street, his chest burning, his mind racing with terror.

But even as he fled, he could still hear them-the voices, faint and distant, whispering his name.

The house on Gallow's Street never let go. And Luke would never be the same.

Word count not including this:635