The house that keeps the souls

The House That Holds Spirits

 

 

At the very edge of the mountain village, where the dirt road ended and a heavy silence began, stood the house. It wasn't just an abandoned structure, but a watchful, waiting presence. Its stone walls cracked like the faces of old people worn down by time, and its broken windows resembled open, sleepless eyes. The withered trees surrounding it leaned toward it, as if trying to escape or warn.

The villagers never spoke its name aloud. They would only point to it or change the subject when it was mentioned. But if asked, they would say, "That's the house that holds the spirits."

Salim wasn't from the village. He had come from the city, fleeing its noise and the nightmares that had begun to haunt him for no apparent reason. He believed in logic, scoffed at folk tales, and saw fear as a manageable weakness. So, when he heard the villagers' warnings, he felt curiosity, not concern.

On the third night after his arrival, the stars disappeared, and fog covered the mountain like a gray shroud. Salim took his torch and began climbing the path to the house. With every step, the air grew heavier, the silence pressed against his ears.

He arrived.

The wooden door was slightly ajar, as if someone had beckoned him in. He hesitated for a second, then pushed it open.

A long creak pierced the night.

As soon as he stepped inside, the door slammed shut behind him. He tried to open it, slammed it with his shoulder, shouted… no use. The house had swallowed him whole.

The smell was a mixture of mold, damp, and something else… something like rust and old blood. The dim light revealed a long corridor, its walls scratched and names etched with human fingernails.

Then he heard the voice.

A whisper… then another… then dozens.

All calling his name.

"Salim… Salim…"

And each voice was different: a child, a woman, an old man, but they all knew him.

He ran, but the corridor stretched on, the floor felt slippery, as if trying to grip his feet. He reached a spacious room with a huge mirror in the center, its frame a chipped gold. He approached it and held up the lamp.

His reflection wasn't him.

His face was pale, his eyes black with no whites, and a smile split to his ears. The reflection raised its hand and waved to him… while his real hand remained still.

Salim recoiled in terror, bumping into something behind him. A hand. Cold. Not human. He turned, but saw no body, only a thick shadow rising from the ground, swirling around him like living smoke.

Sounds rose.

Cries of pain.

Pleadings.

Hysterical laughter.

He fled to a side room and slammed the door shut behind him. The room was cramped, windowless, with a wooden table in the center on which sat an old notebook. He opened it with trembling hands.

Names.

Entire pages of names.

And next to each name… a date of disappearance.

He flipped the pages quickly until he reached the last one. It was empty… except for one name, just scribbled, in wet ink:

Salim.

A sharp pain tore at his head. Memories began to fall from his mind like burnt leaves. He forgot his childhood, his family, the city. Even his own name began to fade.

Then he understood.

The house doesn't kill.

The house preserves.

It preserves voices, faces, the final fear in the eyes of its victims. It makes them a part of itself. An endless echo.

Salim was drawn back to the mirror. This time, his reflection smiled contentedly. When he touched the glass, he felt cold… and then nothing.

In the morning, a shepherd passed by. He swore he heard a young man's voice calling from inside the house:

"Don't be afraid… come in…"

And in the village, another name was added to the list of the missing.

As for the house, it seemed quieter.

As if it had had its fill… temporarily.