The road to Blackwood Hill had been empty for years. No cars passed there, no children played nearby, and even the wind seemed afraid to whisper through the dead trees.
Emma Carter stepped out of the old taxi and stared at the house standing on the hill.
The abandoned house looked darker than the night itself.
Broken windows stared like hollow eyes. The wooden door creaked slowly as the wind pushed it open.
People in the nearby village had warned her.
"No one stays there after sunset."
But Emma didn't believe in ghost stories.
She was a writer searching for inspiration.
And something about this house felt like a story waiting to be told.
As she walked closer, the ground beneath her shoes crunched over dry leaves and old bones.
Suddenly—
The front door slammed shut by itself.
Emma froze.
Then from inside the house, she heard something.
A slow… dragging sound.
Like someone walking across the wooden floor.
But Emma knew one thing.
She was completely alone.
Or so she thought.