The Call of Elmstead House
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 1,420
The sound came at midnight.
At first, it was so faint that Evelyn barely noticed it, thinking it was the wind or the scrape of a branch against the window. But no—the night was too still, too thick with an unnatural silence. The noise returned, soft but deliberate, like the drag of fingertips across glass. She stirred in her bed, holding her breath, listening.
Nothing.
She exhaled slowly, telling herself she was being foolish. Elmstead House was old, much too old, with walls that shifted and floors that groaned under their own weight. Of course it made noises. She closed her eyes again, trying to calm the uneasy flutter in her chest.
Then came the whisper.
“Come home.”
Her eyes flew open, the words prickling her skin. She sat up in bed, heart racing, scanning the darkened room. The window was shut tight. The doors, locked. She was alone. Or at least, she was supposed to be.
Fumbling, she turned on the lamp by her bedside, the weak light casting jagged shadows across the room. For a moment, everything was still. No movement, no sounds but her shallow breathing. Evelyn shook her head, muttering to herself.
It’s just the house, she thought. Just the house settling.
But even as she forced herself to lie back down, that whisper clung to her. Come home. It wasn’t just a voice—it was a plea. It sounded familiar, almost as if it had spoken her name without saying it. She didn’t sleep that night.
***
Evelyn had come to Elmstead House seeking peace. Or, at least, escape. Since Henry’s death, she hadn’t been able to breathe properly, hadn’t been able to think. Their city apartment had felt like a tomb, suffocating her with its memories. The endless sympathies from friends and family were worse—constant reminders that he was gone, that she was alone.
When she found the ad for Elmstead House, it felt like fate. A sprawling estate on the edge of a quiet village, surrounded by elms and silence—perfect for someone looking to disappear, even if just for a little while. She had rented the house for the summer, telling herself that time alone would help her heal. But now, after only a week, she wasn’t sure if she was healing—or unraveling.
The house had seemed harmless enough when she arrived, though it bore the weight of its age. The shutters sagged, the ivy choked the walls, and the air inside smelled faintly of mildew. But none of that bothered her. In fact, she had welcomed it. The isolation, the quiet—anything to stop the endless flood of guilt that had consumed her since Henry’s death. Guilt for not being there when he needed her most. Guilt for not noticing the signs that something was wrong.
She wanted to believe that the house could offer her some kind of solace. But now... now she wasn’t so sure.
The whisper had returned the next night. Faint, yes, but insistent. “Come home.” It drifted through the hallways, curling around her as she moved from room to room. She tried to ignore it, but it was impossible. The voice followed her, slipping through the cracks in the walls, seeping into her thoughts.
She told herself it was just her mind playing tricks—grief, as the doctor had warned her, could do that. It made people hear things, see things that weren’t there. But there was something about Elmstead House that felt different. It wasn’t just the voice; it was the feeling that came with it. The weight. The presence.
As if the house was watching her.
***
On the third night, Evelyn saw the figure.
She had been sitting by the window, staring out at the moonlit lawn, when she caught a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye. A shadow. Quick, but unmistakable. Her breath caught, and she turned sharply, her gaze sweeping the room.
No one.
But something was wrong. The air felt heavier, colder, as though the house itself was holding its breath, waiting.
Evelyn stood, her pulse racing, and moved to the hallway. The darkness seemed to thicken around her as she walked, the floorboards creaking beneath her bare feet. She reached the top of the stairs and paused, her eyes fixed on the deep shadows below.
A soft, almost imperceptible noise drifted up from the foot of the stairs. Footsteps.
She took a step back, her mind scrambling for an explanation. A dream. She was dreaming. That had to be it. She was still asleep in her bed, and this was all some strange, vivid nightmare.
But then the whisper came again, low and insistent, it called to her.
“Come home.”
Evelyn’s heart slammed in her chest, and she stumbled back into her room, slamming the door shut behind her. She leaned against it, trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
The house was alive. She could feel it now, pressing in on her from all sides. The whisper, the figure, the footsteps—they weren’t just tricks of her mind. Something in this house wanted her.
***
The next morning, she searched the house. She couldn’t explain why, but she felt compelled to know more about it—its history, its previous owners. There had to be an explanation for what was happening. Something tangible, something she could understand.
In the cellar, buried beneath layers of dust and time, she found the photograph.
It was old, the edges curled and yellowed, the image faded but clear enough. A family stood in front of Elmstead House—a mother, a father, two children. The smiles on their faces looked strained, as though they were trying too hard to appear happy. Something about the image sent a chill down her spine.
There were no names on the back, no dates. But Evelyn could tell this family had lived here, long before the house had fallen into disrepair. She stared at the photograph for what felt like hours, her mind racing.
Who were they? What had happened to them?
And why was their presence still lingering here?
That night, the whispers grew louder. No longer just a single voice, but several, overlapping, calling to her. She couldn’t sleep. She paced the house, her hands trembling, her thoughts a tangled mess of fear and confusion.
She began to see faces in the mirrors—faces that weren’t her own. Hollow, sunken eyes stared back at her, disappearing when she looked again. Shadows flickered in the corners of her vision, always gone when she tried to catch them.
The house was playing with her. Testing her.
On the seventh night, the cellar door opened on its own.
Evelyn had been avoiding it, the heavy door at the end of the hallway. But tonight, it was different. The door stood ajar, as though inviting her in.
The whispers had returned, louder than ever, echoing through the house. “Come home,” they called, in voices that overlapped and layered on top of one another. And underneath it all, she could hear the faint sound of footsteps, moving slowly, steadily toward her.
She hesitated at the top of the cellar stairs, the cold air rising to meet her. Something was down there, waiting.
She descended, each step creaking beneath her weight, the darkness pressing in on all sides. The air smelled of damp earth and decay, thick with something unspoken.
At the bottom of the stairs, she saw it—a small door, half-hidden behind a stack of old crates. She hadn’t noticed it before.
The whispers grew frantic now, almost pleading. “Come home,” they urged.
Evelyn moved toward the door, her hand shaking as she reached for the handle.
Behind it, she could hear the faint sound of breathing. Slow. Measured. Waiting.
The door swung open.
And the darkness swallowed her whole.
***
No one in the village spoke of Elmstead House anymore. It stood there, a relic of a time long forgotten, its ivy-choked walls and sagging shutters a reminder of those who had come and gone. The house had claimed many lives over the years, though no one knew exactly how or why.
They said it was haunted, that the souls of those who had lived there never truly left. But no one could prove it. The house was too old, too secretive, too patient.
It waited, as it always had, for the next soul to wander through its doors.
And now, it waited again, the whispers of those it had claimed echoing through its halls.
“Come home.”
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