The Abandoned House at the End of the Street: The Curse of the Halloween

At the end of our street stood an abandoned house, its cracked windows and crumbling roof resembling a dark fairy tale brought to life. As kids, we would cross the street to avoid it, but talking about it was always forbidden—except on Halloween. On that night, something strange happened: a simple black bowl filled with the finest candy would appear on the front porch. No one knew who placed it there, and no one dared to stay long enough to find out.

 

The townsfolk were divided about this eerie tradition. Some said it was a harmless charm to bring good luck, while others believed the house was cursed, and the candy was bait. I always kept my distance, content to observe from afar. But one Halloween, I found myself consumed by curiosity about the house. What if I uncovered its secret?

As the night wore on and the streets grew silent, I lingered, watching the empty porch. The bowl sat there, as if waiting for someone. I decided to stay and see what would happen. Everything remained still until the front door creaked open, slow and deliberate. I saw no one, but the door stayed open, like a silent invitation.

I couldn't resist the pull. Armed with a flashlight, I crossed the street cautiously. As I stepped inside, the air shifted. It felt heavy, oppressive. The darkness seemed to devour the beam of my flashlight, and the floor creaked as though alive, reacting to my every step.

Each hallway stretched unnaturally, growing longer with every glance. My breath quickened as I realized the house wasn’t just an empty structure—it was alive, watching me, pulling me deeper inside.

Scattered across the floors were abandoned clothes and shoes, many of them belonging to children. Some were newer, while others were aged and decayed. A chilling realization struck me: these belonged to those who, like me, had ventured in seeking answers but never made it out.

Panic overtook me. I tried to retrace my steps, but the entrance had vanished. Hallways twisted, leading me further into the house. The walls began to pulse, closing in. The floor beneath me turned soft, sticky, as if it were swallowing me whole. Tendrils of the house wrapped around my legs, pulling me back toward its dark core.

I fought with every ounce of strength left in me, clawing my way toward a window. Finally, I broke through and fell onto the grass outside. My body was battered and bleeding, but I was free.

As I lay there, gasping for air, I glanced back at the house. It stood as silent and lifeless as ever, the bowl of candy still on the porch. Yet, I knew the truth: it wasn’t just a house. It was alive, waiting for its next victim.

Even now, I feel its pull. I still live on that street, and every Halloween, I see the bowl reappear. Late at night, I hear faint whispers calling my name, urging me to return. Deep down, I know the house isn’t finished with me. One day, I may not be able to resist.