No one in Blackwood dared to speak of the house at the forest’s edge. The elders warned children to stay away, hunters avoided its grounds, and even the wind seemed to whisper caution through its hollowed windows.
It had not always been this way. Decades ago, the house had been alive with laughter, warmed by lantern light, and filled with the scent of oak and firewood. The Hawthorne family had lived there—until the night they vanished.
There were no signs of struggle. No footprints leading away. No bodies. Just an empty house, doors swinging open in the wind, and dinner still set on the table. A whole family, gone in the span of a single night.
Years passed, and the house fell into ruin, nature reclaiming its stone and timber. The walls cracked, the ceiling collapsed, and vines crept through the shattered windows like fingers reaching for something unseen. But even as time wore it down, the house remained waiting, watching, as if expecting the Hawthornes to return.
And then came Daniel Carter.
A journalist with an obsession for forgotten mysteries, Daniel had spent years chasing ghost stories and legends, but none fascinated him as much as the Hawthorne Vanishing. Determined to uncover the truth, he arrived in Blackwood just before dusk, ignoring the wary stares of the townsfolk as he made his way toward the ruins.
The air grew colder the closer he got.
Standing before the skeletal remains of the house, Daniel felt a strange pressure in his chest, as if the very air around him were thicker, heavier. The house loomed, cracked and broken, yet still defiant against time. The open windows stared at him like vacant eyes.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside.
The scent of damp earth and decay filled his nostrils. Dust swirled in the beams of his flashlight as he moved through the remains of what had once been a home. A collapsed staircase. A rusted lantern. A child's toy, half-buried in the dirt.
Then he heard it.
A whisper.
Faint, distant, but unmistakable.
Daniel turned sharply, heart pounding. His flashlight flickered, the shadows stretching unnaturally along the walls. He took a cautious step forward—only for the floor beneath him to groan in protest.
Then, from the darkness beyond the broken walls, a voice—soft and familiar.
"You're late."
The flashlight died.
And the house, at long last, welcomed him home.