There was something wrong with the old house at the end of Verdan Street. It had stood empty for years, yet no one in town could quite remember who had lived there or why they had left. Strange noises echoed from inside, even when the windows were boarded shut, but it was the silence that was most unsettling—the kind that wrapped itself around you like a blanket, stifling any sound.
When Ethan moved into the neighborhood, he was drawn to the house. His fascination with the unexplained had led him to investigate haunted places, but this one was different. The moment he stepped through the door, it wasn’t just quiet—it was as if the house was holding its breath.
. . .
As Ethan explored the creaking hallways, he noticed something strange: no matter where he went, his footsteps made no sound. The air itself seemed thick, like he was moving through water. The deeper he went, the more the silence weighed on him, pressing against his chest until it became hard to breathe.
He found an old phonograph in the parlor, the needle resting in place, yet no music played. Dust coated every surface, undisturbed for decades. But as he reached out to touch it, the needle moved on its own. Slowly, it began to spin, though no record had been placed on it. Ethan listened intently, but there was no sound—only the spinning, silent needle.
That’s when he realized: the house wasn’t haunted by ghosts. It was haunted by the silence itself.
. . .
He reached the attic, where the air grew impossibly still, the silence more oppressive than ever. There, in the corner, was a mirror covered in dust. Ethan wiped it clean and stared into it, but instead of his reflection, he saw a dark figure, standing behind him.
When he turned, the room was empty, but the silence had deepened. He felt it moving, twisting through the house, alive in a way that silence should never be. And with a sudden, crushing realization, Ethan understood: the house wasn’t empty. It was waiting—for him.
