Nightmare Gallery: A Treasury of Twisted Terror Tales

The Fading Room

When Clara moved into the old cottage by the lake, she had no idea that the house would change her life forever. The property had been vacant for nearly a decade, and the price was too good to pass up. Its weathered brick exterior and ivy-covered walls had a kind of forlorn beauty, the perfect kind of place for someone looking to escape the hustle of city life.

Her first few days were peaceful. Clara unpacked her things, settled into the rhythm of her new routine, and spent time exploring the surrounding woods. The lake, just a stone's throw from her back door, was always quiet, the surface still as a mirror most days. She often sat by the water's edge, feeling the weight of her life in the city slip away with each passing day.

However, as the days turned to weeks, Clara began to notice something strange. It started subtly—like the way a corner of a room can seem just a little too dark. At first, it was only the faint feeling of being watched. The back of her neck would prickle whenever she entered certain rooms, or she'd catch a fleeting shadow out of the corner of her eye. Then, it escalated.

It began in the attic.

Clara had ventured up to the attic on a rainy afternoon, intending to sort through the old trunks left behind by previous tenants. There, nestled among dusty boxes and forgotten keepsakes, she found a room she had never seen before. A narrow door, hidden behind a stack of crates, beckoned her with a quiet invitation. She didn't remember the door being there before.

Curiosity, as it often did, pushed her to open it.

Inside the room was small, with no windows, just a single, dim light bulb hanging from the ceiling. It had the smell of something ancient—wood rot and damp earth. But what caught her attention wasn't the room itself. It was what was on the walls.

The wallpaper was peeling, and behind it were strange marks, dark smudges in the shape of hands, as if someone had pressed their palms into the wall and dragged them down. Clara's skin crawled, and her breath quickened as she ran her fingers along the cold, crumbling plaster. There was something almost hypnotic about the marks.

As she stood there, feeling the chill of the room seep into her bones, Clara heard a sound—a soft, scraping noise, like nails on wood.

She spun around, expecting to find a rat or some other animal in the attic. But there was nothing.

The room was empty.

The only thing that remained was the unsettling feeling of being far too alone in this place.

Over the next few days, the room seemed to call to her. Clara couldn't resist the pull, and she returned several times. Every time she went, the air grew heavier. The marks on the wall seemed to spread, as if they were growing, slowly but surely, claiming more of the room with each passing day. There were times when Clara swore she saw movement in the shadows—something shifting just beyond her line of sight.

But it was always gone when she turned to look.

The room began to feel different. It no longer felt like a part of the house, but a place apart from it. Clara couldn't explain it, but she began to feel disconnected from the rest of the house whenever she entered that room. The floors creaked differently, the air smelled sharper. It was as though reality itself was warping, bending in on itself.

One night, unable to sleep, Clara wandered upstairs and entered the room again. She stood there, staring at the growing marks on the walls, the oppressive silence surrounding her. But as she reached out to touch the wall again, something strange happened.

The room began to fade.

At first, it was subtle—like the edges of the room were being eaten away by darkness, curling in on itself. But then it became more pronounced. The walls seemed to dissolve into the air, the light bulb flickered and went out. Clara's breath caught in her throat. The air grew thick with an almost suffocating pressure.

She turned and tried to rush back to the door, but it was gone. The room had closed in on her, the walls, the floor, and the ceiling all closing in with a terrifying, unnatural speed.

Clara's heart hammered in her chest. She backed away, her hands scraping against the walls in panic, but the room was no longer solid. It was like being trapped in a living, breathing thing, where every inch of space seemed to pulse with its own dark energy.

The room—no, the house—had become something else. The strange marks on the walls were now glowing faintly, and Clara realized with a sudden, horrifying clarity that they were no longer just marks. They were veins, pulsating with something dark, something ancient. The room was alive. It was alive, and it was feeding on her fear.

Clara pressed her hand to the floor, and the texture felt wrong. The wood beneath her palm had turned soft, like flesh, like it was breathing. The room was no longer a room—it was a living creature, and she was its prey.

With a desperate scream, Clara bolted toward the door, but it was no use. No matter how fast she ran, the room stretched and shrank, the walls folding in on themselves, making the distance between her and the exit longer with every step. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps, her legs aching from the effort.

Then, just as she felt she could run no longer, the room shifted again. The floor seemed to open up beneath her, and she fell through.

Clara's body collided with cold earth, and for a moment, everything went dark.

When she awoke, the room was gone. There was no sign of the glowing marks, the soft walls, or the oppressive air. The attic was silent, just as it had been when she first moved in.

But when Clara looked down, she realized she wasn't alone.

She was lying in a bed of dark, tangled roots, the ground soft beneath her. Above her, the ceiling was smooth and perfect, and she could see the faint outline of the walls surrounding her—walls she didn't recognize. But what truly made her heart freeze was the sensation.

She wasn't in the house anymore.

The house was gone.

And the room—the room that had been a part of the house—was now a part of her. The marks on her arms, the veins that had once been on the walls, were now beneath her skin, pulsing with a life of their own.

And as she lay there, caught between the world she knew and the world she had just discovered, Clara realized with a sickening certainty that the house had claimed her—body and soul.

The fading room had taken her, and now it was her turn to wait.

To wait for the next one.