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| Creepy urban legends |
You wake up with a sharp gasp. Your breath is ragged, your pulse racing as the cold seeps through the thin fabric of your clothes. The floor beneath you feels rough, like stone, pressing its icy fingers against your skin. You blink a few times, trying to gather your thoughts, but all that greets you is darkness. No windows, no light, just this inky blackness swallowing everything. Your head throbs, and your mind screams with the one question that matters right now: Where am I?
As you push yourself off the floor, a dull ache pulses through your body. The air is heavy, stale, like the house itself hasn’t breathed in years. It smells old—like dust and decay. You can’t remember how you got here, but something deep in your gut tells you that you don’t want to know.
A creak echoes from behind you, sharp and sudden. You freeze, your breath hitching. Did you hear that? Or was it just the house settling, its ancient bones groaning beneath years of neglect? It’s too late to wonder. You stand, hands outstretched, searching for anything—walls, furniture, something solid to ground you in this nightmare. Your fingertips finally brush against cold, uneven stone, and you steady yourself, taking in the feel of it. It’s real. You’re here. Wherever “here” is.
A flicker of light catches the corner of your eye. Turning, you see a faint glow coming from the hallway ahead. It’s dim, barely enough to cast shadows, but it’s the first sign of life you’ve seen. Instinct tells you to stay put, but curiosity—and fear—push you forward. Because sitting in the dark isn’t exactly doing wonders for your nerves.
The hallway is narrow, suffocating almost, and the deeper you go, the colder it gets. Your footsteps echo off the stone walls, the sound hollow and haunting. That light? It’s coming from an old, flickering lamp at the end of the hall. Beneath it, you can just make out the shape of a mirror—dusty, cracked at the edges, but clear enough to reflect the dim light back at you.
You stare at your reflection, but something isn’t right. The person staring back doesn’t look... normal. Your face is the same, but the eyes. There’s something in your eyes that you don’t recognize, like they’ve seen something—something they shouldn’t have. The flickering light only makes it worse, casting shadows that seem to move on their own. You blink, once, twice, and for a second, it’s as if someone else is standing behind you, just out of sight.
But when you turn around, there’s nothing there. Just empty space.
You keep moving. The hall opens up into a larger room, the ceilings higher, but the darkness still clings to every corner. Faded paintings hang crooked on the walls, their subjects long forgotten, their eyes staring blankly into the void. An old, dusty couch sits against the far wall, like it’s been waiting for someone to return for years. The whole place reeks of abandonment, but more than that—it feels... wrong.
There’s this story you remember, one of those creepy urban legends for Halloween that you heard back in high school. It was about a house—a house that people would talk about, but no one ever really believed existed. The story was always told differently depending on who you asked, but the gist was the same: the house was alive. It would call to people, lure them in, and once you were inside, you’d never leave. Or worse, you’d leave, but you’d never be the same.
As the memory surfaces, a chill runs down your spine. You’ve always brushed off spooky urban tales like that as nothing more than myths. But standing here, in this place, it’s hard to shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, those legends weren’t all made up. Maybe this is that house—the one that’s always waiting, always watching.
A sharp bang from the next room snaps you out of your thoughts. Your heart jumps into your throat. You’re not alone. Someone—or something—is here. You hesitate, your feet glued to the floor for a long moment. But you can’t stay still, not when whatever’s making that noise might be heading your way.
You push through the door into the next room, and it’s like stepping back in time. The furniture is antique, the kind of stuff your grandparents might’ve had. A table, a few chairs, a grandfather clock in the corner ticking softly. But it’s the walls that catch your attention. They’re covered in strange markings—symbols etched into the wood, swirling patterns that almost make your head hurt just looking at them.
You’ve seen these before. Halloween urban myths are full of stories about symbols like this—markings used in rituals, summoning things best left alone. But here they are, right in front of you, carved deep into the walls like a warning. Or maybe an invitation.
A chill creeps up your neck as you realize something else. This room... it’s familiar. You’ve seen it before. Not in real life, but in one of those creepiest urban legends to share on Halloween night—a story about a room where time stands still, where people would sit at the table and never get up again. You thought it was just a story. But now? Now you’re not so sure.
The clock’s ticking grows louder, each second stretching into infinity, the sound drilling into your skull. And then, without warning, it stops. The silence that follows is thick, suffocating. You step back, your eyes darting around the room, every nerve in your body screaming for you to get out. But the door—where’s the door? It’s gone. The room is sealed, trapping you inside.
You spin around, heart pounding, eyes searching for an escape, but there’s no way out. The markings on the walls seem to shift, twisting and turning, like they’re alive, like they’re watching you. Your breathing quickens, panic rising in your chest. This isn’t just some legend. This is real. You’re in the story now.
Something moves in the shadows, a flicker just at the edge of your vision. You freeze, not daring to breathe. The darkness shifts, and you hear it—a low, guttural whisper, like a voice but not quite human. It’s close. Too close.
You back up slowly, your eyes darting around, but there’s nowhere to go. The room seems to shrink around you, the walls closing in, the darkness pressing down. And then, out of the shadows, a figure steps forward.
You can’t see its face—just the outline of a body, distorted, wrong. The whispering grows louder, filling the room, filling your head. The figure reaches out, its hand pale and thin, fingers like claws. It points to the table. And then you hear it—clear as day, the voice in your head:
“Sit.”
Your legs move before you can stop them, carrying you to the table. You sit down, your hands shaking, your mind screaming at you to get up, to run, to do anything but sit there. But you can’t move. You’re frozen, trapped by the invisible force that holds you in place.
The figure steps closer, and now you can see it—its face, pale and hollow, eyes black as night. It leans down, its breath cold against your skin, and whispers in your ear:
“This is your story now.”
The room spins, the walls blur, and for a moment, everything goes dark. When you open your eyes again, you’re back in the hallway, the mirror at the end glinting in the dim light. But this time, when you look into the mirror, the person staring back isn’t you. Not anymore.
They’re someone else. And now, you realize the truth.
You were never meant to leave.