It was a cold, moonless night in the small town of Ravenswood. The kind of night where the air seemed to freeze your breath and the shadows danced with an eerie life of their own. I had always been skeptical about the supernatural, but that night changed everything.
I had inherited my great – uncle’s old house after he passed away. It was a massive, creaky structure with walls that seemed to whisper secrets of the past. The townsfolk had warned me about the house, saying it was haunted. I dismissed their stories as mere superstition, but deep down, a part of me was curious.
The first few days were uneventful. The house was old and full of strange noises, but I attributed them to the settling of the structure. However, on the fourth night, things took a turn for the worse.
I was in the kitchen, preparing a late – night snack when I heard it¡ªa faint, unsettling sound that seemed to come from the basement. It was a rhythmic cracking, almost like bones being crushed. I dismissed it as a mouse or some other critter and continued with my task. But the sound grew louder, more insistent, until it was impossible to ignore.
My curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to investigate. I grabbed a flashlight and cautiously made my way down the narrow, wooden staircase that led to the basement. The air down there was thick and musty, and the walls were lined with old, dusty shelves filled with forgotten relics.
As I reached the bottom, the sound became almost deafening. It was definitely the sound of bones cracking, and it seemed to be coming from a corner of the room. I shone my flashlight in that direction and gasped in horror. There, in the dim light, was a figure hunched over a pile of bones. It was a man, or at least it had once been a man. His skin was and pale stretched tightly over his bones, and his eyes were hollow and lifeless.
He didn’t seem to notice me at first, too engrossed in his macabre task. But then he looked up, and I saw something in his eyes that chilled me to the core. It was hunger, a primal, inhuman hunger. He let out a low growl and began to move towards me. I tried to run, but my legs felt like lead, and I could only stumble back up the stairs.
I made it to the top just as he reached the staircase. I slammed the door shut and leaned against it, my heart pounding in my chest. I could hear him on the other side, the sound of his claws scraping against the wood. I knew I had to do something, but I was paralyzed with fear.
After what felt like an eternity, the scratching stopped. I opened cautiously the door and looked down. The basement was empty. The figure was gone, and the pile of bones was back in its place. But I knew it wasn’t over. I could feel its presence, lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike again.
I spent the rest of the night huddled in a corner, too terrified to sleep. The next morning, I packed my bags and left the house, never looking back. I couldn’t stay there anymore. The house had a dark secret, and I didn’t want to be a part of it.
As I drove away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a pair of hollow eyes staring back at me. I screamed and stepped on the gas, not stopping until I was miles away.
I never went back to that house, and I never spoke of what I saw. But the memory of that night still haunts me, and I can’t shake the feeling that the figure is still out there, waiting for me.
If you ever find yourself in Ravenswood, stay away from the old house at the end of the street. And if you ever hear the sound of bones cracking in the night, run. Because whatever is making that sound is something you don’t want to meet.
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