(Journal of Darwin Smith)
When my brother Charles first suggested we spend our winter break at our late grandfather's house in the mountains, I laughed.
"Why the hell would we camp in some dusty old shack in the middle of nowhere," I asked, tossing popcorn into my mouth as we played video games in our apartment.
Charles shrugged, grinning the way he always did when he thought he was right.
"Because it's tradition, Darwin. Grandpa used to take Dad there every year when they were kids.
And now, since it's ours, we should go. Just you and me. Like the old days."
Something about the way he said it made me agree, though I couldn't explain why.
Maybe it was the fact that we hadn't spent real time together in years, or maybe because the house—long abandoned since Grandpa's death—was calling to us in some strange, ancestral way.
We left the next morning, driving five hours up winding, snow-choked roads until the woods seemed to swallow the car whole.
The mountains loomed over us like silent giants, and there, tucked away in their frozen arms, was Grandpa's house.
It stood exactly as I remembered from childhood: a weather-beaten cabin with a sagging porch and windows that looked too much like eyes.
The chimney was cracked, the paint peeled in long strips, and the front door creaked open before we even touched it.
Charles laughed. "Guess Grandpa never believed in locks."
But I swear I felt the cold breath of the house exhale as we stepped inside.
**********
Week One.
The first days were… fine. Normal, even.
We unpacked, cleaned up years of dust, set up sleeping bags in the living room where the fireplace was, and spent nights drinking beer and sharing stories.
It was almost peaceful. Almost.
Except for the house itself.
Even in the daylight, it felt like it was watching us.
Floorboards groaned when no one stepped, shadows moved just a fraction too slowly, and the air was always just a bit too cold, even when the fire roared.
I told myself it was just an old house. Just the woods, the wind, and my overactive imagination.
But on the seventh night, I woke to the sound of footsteps above us.
I froze.
The house only had one floor.
I sat up, heart hammering, straining my ears.
Charles was asleep beside the fire, snoring softly.
The footsteps dragged slowly, deliberately, across the ceiling that shouldn't exist.
Then came the whisper.
"Darwin…"
It was so faint I thought I imagined it.
My chest tightened. My mouth went dry.
I told myself it was the wind, the creak of the house, a trick of firelight.
I lay back down, pulling the blanket over my head like a terrified child.
Eventually, I slept.
*******
By morning, I'd almost convinced myself I imagined it.
Almost.
Week Two.
On the tenth day, Charles disappeared.
It happened in the middle of the afternoon. We were chopping wood outside, snow falling heavy through the trees.
I went inside to grab water and when I came back out—Charles was gone.
I called his name. I checked the woods, checked the shed. Nothing.
No footprints in the snow. No broken branches.
Nothing but silence.
Panic clawed at my throat as I circled the cabin again and again, screaming his name into the indifferent trees.
When I finally stumbled back inside, shaking, there he was—sitting by the fire.
"Where the hell were you?" I demanded.
He blinked at me slowly, like I was the crazy one. "I've been here the whole time."
"No, you weren't—" I froze. His clothes were bone-dry. His boots clean.
But I knew, I knew, I'd left him outside in the snow.
Charles just smiled. Too still.
I didn't sleep that night.
******
After that, things spiraled.
At night, I heard doors slam upstairs.
The attic ladder creaked as though someone climbed it, though the attic had been sealed for decades.
Shadows walked the hall when I was alone.
And Charles… Charles wasn't the same.
He stayed up late, whispering to the corners of the room.
He stared too long into the dark, like something stared back.
When I asked what he was doing, he only laughed and said, "Don't you hear them too?"
By the twelfth night, I found him scribbling symbols into the walls with charcoal.
They looked like eyes.
I begged him to stop. He ignored me.
Then came the thirteenth night.
I woke up to the sound of my name.
Not whispered, not faint—but screamed, right beside my ear.
"DARWIN!"
It was Charles.
I bolted upstairs where his voice was coming from, but Charles was nowhere to be seen.
The fire was out. The house was dark.
And i saw something move in the kitchen.
I grabbed the flashlight, hand trembling, and stepped forward.
Its beam cut through the dark, revealing… nothing. Just chairs, the table, the sink.
Then one of the chairs scraped back slowly—by itself.
My breath caught.
In the corner of the kitchen stood something tall, hunched, its face hidden in shadow.
Long arms dragged against the floor. The stench of rot filled the air.
The flashlight flickered.
When it steadied again—it was gone.
But behind me, I heard Charles laugh.
******
I found the journal on the fifteenth day.
It was hidden beneath a loose floorboard in Grandpa's study, wrapped in cloth stiff with age.
The first entries were normal—notes about weather, crops, letters to Dad.
But the later pages grew frantic.
Grandpa wrote about visitors in the night.
About things in the woods that were not men, though they wore men's faces.
About the "Watcher in the Walls."
One entry burned itself into my mind:
"The house is not ours. It never was. It belongs to them. And once you step inside—you belong to them too."
My hands shook as I closed the journal.
When I looked up, Charles was standing in the doorway. Staring. Smiling.
"You found it," he said softly. "Good. Now you'll understand."
His voice was wrong. Too low. Too many echoes.
I realized then—my brother had never come back from the woods.
Whatever sat by the fire with me, whatever carved eyes into the walls—was not Charles.
*******
The days blurred.
I stopped eating. I barely slept.
The house no longer felt like walls and wood but a body, alive, watching.
The whispers grew louder, voices overlapping, laughing, chanting.
And Charles—no, the thing that wore Charles' skin—was always there.
Watching me with eyes that don't blink.
On the seventeenth night, I tried to leave.
I ran into the snow, through the trees, desperate for the road.
But no matter how far I went, I always ended up back at the porch.
The house wouldn't let me go.
The eighteenth night was the worst.
I woke strapped to a chair in the attic.
Candles flickered all around, symbols carved into the floor.
Charles stood before me, smiling that same terrible smile.
"They want you, brother," he whispered.
"They've been waiting for you. Grandpa gave me to them. Now it's your turn."
From the shadows, they emerged. Tall, thin figures, faces pale and stretched, eyes too wide.
Their arms bent wrongly, their jaws unhinged as they hissed.
One leaned close, breath hot against my ear.
"Darwin…"
I screamed until my throat tore.
*******
I don't know what day it is anymore.
The sun hasn't risen in what feels like weeks.
I'm writing this by firelight, though the fire burns cold.
My hands shake as I hold the pen.
Charles is gone. Or maybe he never was.
The house hums around me, alive, hungry.
The walls pulse like veins. The whispers are constant now
. They tell me to finish, to surrender, to belong.
But I won't.
If anyone finds this—burn the house. Don't step inside.
Don't listen to the whispers. Don't trust the ones who smile too long.
Because whatever watches from the walls is not human.
And once you see it—you can never unsee it.
The pen is heavy. My hand… not my hand anymore.
The words are still mine. They must be mine.
I belong to the—
[The entry ends here. The ink trails into a jagged black smear, as though the hand holding the pen kept moving long after the writing stopped.]
Stream Commentary;Tape 39. "Grandpa's House"
(Kai sits slouched in his chair, the shadows of his hood draped like a shroud. The faint hum of static buzzes as the black goggle catches the glow)
(He exhales sharply)
"Grandpa's House… A place that was never really theirs. A place that devoured one brother and kept the other."
[@Ovesix: The grandfather knew. He wrote it down. He lived in that house knowing it wasn't his. Why didn't he burn it? Why bring the family there at all? Unless...unless he couldn't leave either]
[@Jaija: Or maybe Grandpa didn't want to leave. Maybe he gave himself to the house, and when he died, he passed it along, like some creepy inheritance. A haunted legacy. Heh Imagine getting that in a will]
[@642: I think Grandpa fed it. Fed it his children, his guests, his family. That's why Darwin and Charles never stood a chance. The house is alive—it doesn't let go once it tastes you. Grandpa was just its first priest. He kept it sated]
[@Enchomay: Or worse… maybe the house isn't the monster. Maybe it's just a doorway. And Grandpa… was the one who opened it. The Watcher in the Walls wasn't haunting him. He invited it in]
(Kai leans forward, steepling his fingers)
"You see? That's the horror of it. We think we own things—land, houses, even the silence of mountains.
But sometimes, the land owns us.
Sometimes, we inherit not homes, but cages. And what waits inside… doesn't care if you believe in it or not."
[@Jaija:What about Darwin? Do you think he… ever escaped?]
[@642: Escaped? Don't be stupid. Once you write the last entry in a cursed house, you belong to it. Darwin's probably part of the walls now. A whisper, a shadow, a laugh. Same as Charles]
[@Ovesix: Maybe. But maybe the journal was his way of resisting. A warning left behind so at least someone else won't fall into the same trap]
[@Enchomay: And yet we all know the truth. Humans… can't resist curiosity. If you leave a locked door in a house, someone will open it. Even if it kills them]
(Kai chuckles darkly)
"Ah… the curse of being human. We can't leave things unexplored, untouched, unknown.
And sometimes, that curiosity is exactly what the darkness is counting on.
So, my dear listeners—if you ever inherit a house that feels too quiet, too alive, too hungry—don't step inside.
Don't claim it as your own. Because some homes are not shelters.
Some homes… are predators."
(He raises a finger, almost theatrically)
"And predators do not let go once they've bitten."
(The static rises, then settles into an uneasy silence. Kai tilts his head toward the screen, voice dropping low)
"Which brings us to our next tale.
A sweet one, at first glance. A tale about love and a new home, about togetherness, about the perfect warmth of domestic bliss."
(He grins slowly, the goggle's glass catching a white flash)
"It's called—A Happy Family."
[@Jaija: Oh, no. With you, Kai, when you say 'happy,' it never means happy]
[@642: Good. I want to see what kind of perfect little family tears itself apart this time]
[@Enchomay: Because sometimes the happiest smiles… are the ones hiding the deepest rot]
(Kai only hums, tapping a finger against the desk, as if keeping time with something none of us can hear)
"Stay tuned. You'll see."
STREAM ENDED