Emma stood in the small, dimly lit room, staring at the rocking chair that had come to an unsettling stop. The silence pressed in on her like a weight, thick and suffocating. Her heart hammered in her chest, each beat louder than the last, and her breath came in shallow gasps as her eyes remained fixed on the motionless chair.
The air felt different now—charged with something dark and invisible. The walls of the house seemed to close in around her, and she could hear the faintest sound, almost like a whisper, carried on the stale air. It was a voice, but it was so soft and far away that Emma couldn’t make out the words.
She took a tentative step forward, her feet feeling heavy as though the floor beneath her had grown colder. The shadows in the room seemed to shift, dark tendrils reaching out, curling toward her like unseen hands. For a moment, she wondered if her eyes were playing tricks on her. Maybe it was just the dust in the air, or the flickering light through the curtains. But deep down, she knew it wasn’t.
"Hello?" Emma’s voice was a whisper, tentative and unsure.
No answer.
She took another step toward the chair, her fingers brushing the back of it. The wood was smooth, worn by time, and yet there was a subtle heat to it, a warmth that seemed to radiate from the seat itself. As her fingers lingered on the chair, the whispering grew louder, like a dozen voices murmuring just beneath her hearing. Her skin prickled with the sensation of being watched, and her stomach tightened in a knot of fear.
She jerked her hand back, her heart thundering in her chest. She needed to leave. She needed to get out of this house. But something inside her—something she couldn’t quite explain—kept her rooted to the spot. A sense of inevitability, like the house had already claimed her, its grip tightening around her soul.
"Stop it," she muttered, more to herself than anything else. "It’s just an old house."
But the whispers didn’t stop.
Instead, they grew louder, and for the first time, Emma could hear a distinct phrase buried within the cacophony of voices.
“Come closer.”
Her blood ran cold. The voice was not her own, and it certainly wasn’t coming from any living person. Emma’s eyes flicked nervously toward the door, as if the escape she so desperately needed could be found just beyond it. But something kept her from moving. The air was thick, oppressive, and the shadows that filled the room seemed to stretch toward her, like fingers beckoning her forward.
Against every instinct in her body, Emma took a step closer to the chair. Her eyes were locked on the seat, now unnaturally still, as if it were waiting for her to sit in it. A strange compulsion gripped her, an urge she couldn’t explain. She reached out again, her hand trembling as she hovered above the worn armrest.
The moment her fingers brushed the wood, the air seemed to crackle with energy. The chair shifted, just slightly, as if an invisible presence had stirred it. Emma’s breath caught in her throat as the chair creaked, its legs scraping against the floor as if something—or someone—had just stood up.
The room felt smaller now. The walls seemed to close in around her, the shadows pressing closer, darker. She could hear the sound of something moving just behind her, the faintest shuffle of footsteps, like someone—or something—was pacing the room.
She spun around, but there was nothing there.
The whispers grew more distinct, the words clearer now.
“Don’t leave... It’s not over.”
The chill that ran through Emma’s veins threatened to paralyze her. She stepped back, her back hitting the doorframe, her mind racing with fear and confusion. She had to leave. There was no reason for her to stay here, no reason to put herself through this madness. Yet, despite every instinct screaming at her to run, her feet refused to move.
The chair groaned again, its rocking beginning once more, though there was no breeze, no wind. Slowly, the rhythmic motion began to pick up speed, as though it were being pushed by unseen hands, the creaking growing louder with each passing second. The shadows seemed to sway along with it, as if they were alive, feeding off the movement, growing darker, more ominous.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the rocking stopped.
A heavy silence descended upon the room.
Emma’s breath came in shallow gasps as she felt the weight of something pressing down on her chest, suffocating her, making it impossible to think. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of what was happening. She had heard the stories about Black Hollow—about the house—but she had dismissed them, thought they were nothing more than local superstition. But standing here, in this cursed room, she realized just how wrong she had been.
Something was here.
Something wanted her here.
Her legs felt unsteady, as though they might give way beneath her. With every passing second, the house seemed to grow more alive, the shadows shifting and breathing, the walls whispering. She wanted to run, but the door behind her felt miles away, the very thought of turning her back on the room almost impossible. The air seemed to hum with an unnatural energy, as if it were thick with intent.
She couldn’t stay here any longer.
With trembling hands, she reached for the doorknob. Her fingers brushed the cold metal, but as soon as she touched it, the door slammed shut with a deafening bang. Emma stumbled backward, her heart leaping into her throat. She reached for the knob again, desperate to escape, but it refused to turn. The door was locked, as if something was holding it shut.
A cold, hollow laugh echoed from somewhere behind her.
The sound wasn’t human. It was distant, like a wind howling through the cracks in the walls. But the malice in it was unmistakable.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Emma’s blood ran cold. She spun around, her eyes frantically scanning the room, but there was nothing. Just the rocking chair. And the shadows.
But she could feel it. Something was watching her. Something was waiting for her to make a mistake.
She pressed her back against the door, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Her mind screamed at her to leave, but her legs refused to move. The room seemed to close in around her, the air thickening, stifling. She was trapped.
And then, through the stillness, she heard it. A sound, like soft footsteps moving toward her from across the room.
Click. Click. Click.
Closer. Each step, a sharp crack in the silence, growing nearer, until it was right behind her.
Emma didn’t dare turn around. She couldn’t. But she knew—deep down—whatever was behind her was not human.
And it was getting closer.
