Chương 255: Chapter 255
The Johnson house stood at the edge of town, its faded red paint peeling away like layers of forgotten time. No one remembered exactly when it had been built, but the foundation had crumbled enough that the floors creaked every time someone stepped on them. It wasn't anything special, but it had been home to the Johnsons for years—until things began to change.
At first, the noises were small, insignificant. A creak here, a groan there, as if the house was simply stretching, waking up. But it was more than just a house. In the middle of the night, when the wind was still and the streetlights outside blinked their last, the house started to speak.
Sam, the oldest son, was the first to notice it. He'd always been the one to stay up late, his eyes glued to the screen or buried in a book, the world outside his thoughts. But one night, the creaking was louder. A sound that seemed to come from deep within the floorboards, like something heavy crawling under the house. He'd told his parents, of course, but they just shrugged it off.
"It's just the house settling," his father had said, his voice thick with a weariness Sam couldn't quite place.
But Sam wasn't convinced. Every night, the creaks grew louder. They started at midnight, then stretched into the early hours of the morning. The noise had no rhythm, no pattern, and it felt as though it was trying to reach them. Something was down there. Something was waiting.
Soon, it wasn't just Sam hearing the noises. His younger sister, Emily, started complaining too. She'd sit up in bed, her small hands clutching her blankets, her eyes wide with fear.
"Don't you hear it?" she'd ask Sam, her voice trembling.
But Sam didn't know how to explain. He had heard the sounds, yes. But it wasn't something you could just tell people. Not unless you wanted them to think you were crazy. He thought about it for days, trying to understand it, until he could no longer ignore the feeling that something was terribly wrong.
His parents had started fighting more often, too. His father had become distant, his eyes glazed over as if he were seeing something far beyond the room. His mother had become more withdrawn, her face pale, her movements stiff. They spent their nights arguing in the kitchen, voices rising and falling, but nothing ever changed.
The house seemed to get worse with each passing day.
At night, the creaking grew louder, more desperate. The old wooden floorboards groaned under an invisible weight, as if something below was struggling to break free. And then, one night, it happened. Sam was lying in his bed, wide awake, listening to the house as it spoke. The floor beneath him cracked with a low, almost deliberate sound. He sat up, heart hammering in his chest, and listened. The creak was different this time, as if something—someone—had crossed the threshold of the room below.
He held his breath, waiting. His eyes darted to the door. The sound wasn't coming from the floorboards anymore. It was coming from the stairs.
Sam moved slowly, his feet silent against the floor. He didn't know what he expected to find. Maybe nothing at all. Maybe he was just tired, maybe it was the stress of everything. But he had to check.
Downstairs, the house was darker than it should have been. The shadows seemed deeper, the air thicker. He didn't turn on the lights—he didn't want to disturb whatever was waiting. The creaking continued, louder now, and he felt a chill run through him as he moved toward the stairs. He was too afraid to speak. The house had become a thing, a living thing. He felt it in the walls, in the floor, in the air.
Then he heard it again, that creak, this time unmistakably coming from the base of the stairs. Something was moving.
Sam's breath hitched, and his hand shook as he reached for the railing. He descended the stairs, each step louder than the last. At the bottom, he paused, straining his ears. The house was silent now, but that didn't mean anything. He knew better than to trust silence.
There, in the hallway, the front door stood slightly ajar. Cold air spilled in from outside. Sam didn't remember opening it.
"Mom? Dad?" he whispered, but there was no answer. The floorboards creaked again, closer this time, just behind him. He turned quickly, heart pounding in his chest.
Nothing. The hallway stretched out before him, dark and empty.
He took a step forward. The door slowly swung open further. The cold wind pressed in. It was then that he realized: his parents were gone. The house was empty. Every room, every corner, deserted.
He didn't understand. He thought he was dreaming. But the cold air biting at his skin was too real. The floorboards creaked again, closer now, and he felt the weight of it all press down on him. There was no escape.
It didn't take long for him to realize no one was coming back.
The days stretched on. Sam wandered the house, looking for some sign of what had happened. He found nothing. His parents were gone. Emily, too. Their rooms, their clothes, their things—all untouched, as though they had never existed. The house, though, was still alive. The floorboards creaked and groaned, louder now, more frequent. Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, Sam swore he could hear breathing, shallow and strained, coming from beneath the floor.
He tried to leave, but the front door wouldn't open. He had tried the back door, the windows, everything, but the house wouldn't let him out. He was trapped.
Days turned into weeks, but the creaking never stopped. Every night, it got louder. Something was moving beneath the house, something desperate, something alive. The air grew heavier, the temperature colder, and Sam began to feel as though the walls were closing in on him. His thoughts began to unravel. He couldn't tell if he was losing his mind or if it was the house doing it to him.
One evening, when the creaking had become unbearable, Sam made a decision. He had to know. He couldn't keep living in fear of what he couldn't see. He grabbed a crowbar from the garage and returned to the hallway. The floorboards, warped and old, seemed to whisper to him now, begging him to stay away. But he ignored it. He pried at the boards in the hallway, his heart racing with every scrape, every crack of wood.
Then, as the last board gave way, he saw it.
There was nothing. Just emptiness.
But from the hole, there was something else. A smell. Foul, rancid, like decay and rot. And the creaking—it came from inside the hole. Inside the walls. The house had grown hungry. It had been waiting for him all along.
His hands shook as he stumbled back, knocking into the walls, his breath coming in short gasps. His heart hammered in his chest. This wasn't just a house. It was a thing, an entity that had fed on his family. And now it wanted him too.
He backed up slowly, but the walls seemed to press in, closing around him. There was nowhere to go. The floorboards creaked again, closer now, too close. He tried to scream, but the words stuck in his throat. The house was hungry, and Sam could feel the cold fingers wrap around him. Something in the darkness grabbed him, dragging him downward. His legs buckled, his body pulled apart by the weight of the house. His screams echoed through the empty rooms, but no one would ever hear them.
The house had claimed him.
Tình trạng nguồn điện hàng tuần
-- Xếp hạng
Quyền lực 
-- Đá
Quyền lực