Donald woke stood frozen at the bottom of the staircase, his heart hammering.
The creak had come from his bedroom door.
But he was downstairs.
Cold air pressed against his skin, raising goosebumps along his arms. He reached for his phone, his fingers slick with sweat, and turned on the flashlight.
The hallway above was empty.
Donald exhaled shakily.
"You're being paranoid."
He climbed the stairs slowly, each step groaning under his weight. His bedroom door was slightly open-he had closed it last night.
Taking a deep breath, he nudged it open with his foot.
The room looked normal.
Except...
His closet door was ajar.
A thin sliver of darkness peered at him, like an eye watching from the void.
Donald hesitated, then stepped forward and yanked it open.
Nothing.
His clothes hung limply. The floor was bare.
And yet, the air inside felt colder than the rest of the room.
He shut the closet, sat at his desk, and rubbed his temples.
His notebook was still open.
The last thing he had written was his introduction about haunted houses.
But now, scrawled in shaky handwriting beneath it, were words he did not write:
DON'T STAY PAST MIDNIGHT.
His skin prickled.
Grabbing his phone, he checked the time. 7:42 AM.
Shoving the notebook into a drawer, he pushed back from his desk.
"It's just a prank. Or sleepwalking. Or..."
But deep down, he didn't believe that.
The day passed in uneasy silence.
Donald tried to distract himself with writing, but his thoughts kept circling back to last night.
He explored the house more thoroughly, opening every door, checking the basement (just a dusty storage space), and tapping the walls for hidden crawlspaces.
Everything was normal.
Or at least, appeared normal.
That night, as the clock crept past 10:30 PM, Donald sat at his desk again, typing on his laptop.
Then, from the hallway outside-
A sound.
Breathing.
Slow. Shallow.
Like someone standing just beyond the door.
Donald went completely still.
The air shifted, and for the first time, he felt it.
A presence.
Someone-or something-was there.
Holding his breath, he grabbed his phone and inched toward the door.
The breathing grew louder, more labored.
His hand trembled as he reached for the doorknob.
Suddenly, the breathing stopped.
Donald froze, his heart pounding in his ears.
He waited, straining to hear anything beyond the door.
But there was only silence.
Slowly, he turned the knob and pulled the door open.
The hallway was empty.
But the air felt thick, oppressive, as if the house itself was watching him.
stepped back, shut the door, and locked it.
He didn't sleep that night.
Over the next few days, the house's unsettling behavior escalated.
Donald would hear soft whispers emanating from the walls, unintelligible but persistent.
Objects moved from their original places a chair shifted, books rearranged, lights flickered.
One evening, as he was brushing his teeth, the bathroom mirror fogged up, and words appeared:
"LEAVE NOW".
Donald stumbled back, dropping his toothbrush.
The message slowly faded, leaving him shaken.
Determined to find answers, he visited the local library the next day, seeking information about the house's history.
The librarian, Ms.Bowen, was a woman in her late sixties with sharp eyes and a cautious demeanor.
When Donald mentioned the address, her expression darkened.
"That house..." she began, lowering her voice, "has a troubled past."
She led him to the archives, pulling out old newspaper clippings and town records.
Donald learned that, decades ago, the house had belonged to the Blackwood family.
They were reclusive, rarely seen in town.
Rumors circulated about strange rituals and occult practices.
One night, neighbors reported screams coming from the house.
When authorities arrived, they found the entire family dead, their bodies arranged in a ritualistic manner.
The cause of death was never determined, and the case remained unsolved.
Since then, every subsequent occupant experienced disturbances-apparitions, unexplained noises, and in some cases, disappearances.
The house earned the nickname: The House That Never Sleeps.
Ms. Bowen looked at Donald gravely.
"Many believe the house is cursed," she said. "Perhaps it's best if you leave."
Donald felt a chill but was also intrigued.
His journalist instincts kicked in.
This was more than just a haunted house; it was a story waiting to be told.
Returning to the house, Donald felt a renewed sense of purpose.
He set up recording equipment, hoping to capture evidence of the paranormal.
But as days turned into nights, the house's malevolence grew.
Donald began experiencing nightmares, vivid and terrifying, where he was trapped within the walls, chased by shadowy figures.
He'd wake up sweating, the echoes of his own screams ringing in his ears.
The whispers became voices, calling his name, urging him to join them.
His reflection in mirrors would smile back at him, even when he wasn't smiling.
Donald's grip on reality started to slip.
He isolated himself, paranoia taking hold.
Every creak, every gust of wind became a threat.
He stopped eating, sleeping only when exhaustion overtook him.
One night, as the clock struck midnight, Donald heard a melody.
A haunting lullaby, drifting through the halls.
Drawn to it, he followed the sound to the basement door.
It was a place he had avoided, sensing its darkness.
But now, he felt compelled to enter.
Descending the creaky stairs, the melody grew louder, more entrancing.
At the bottom, he found an old gramophone, spinning a record.
The same lullaby played on a loop.
Beside it lay a journal, its pages yellowed with age.
picked it up, recognizing the name on the cover"Melissa Blackwood".
The journal detailed Melissa's descent into madness.
She wrote about hearing voices, seeing apparitions, and feeling an unseen presence.