The darkness of the Holloway house was no longer passive.
It pressed against Ava like a tide, thick and heavy, as if the walls themselves leaned forward to listen to her every breath.
The candle had died, and the silence that followed felt alive. Ava's lungs burned as she forced air through her throat. The three words on the page—You are chosen—still glimmered faintly in her vision, as if they had been etched into her eyes.
Her hand trembled as she reached out, fingertips brushing the desk. Paper crinkled under her touch, damp and cold, though no water had touched it. The room smelled of iron, of dust, of something older than rot.
Slowly, she pushed herself upright, her knees screaming from crouching. She could not tell how long she had been there—seconds, minutes, an hour? The house warped time, stretching and pulling it like fabric torn at the seams.
A faint sound drifted through the study. Not the shuffle of steps this time, nor the dragging cloth she had heard in the archives basement. This was… smaller. A tapping. Regular. Sharp. Like fingernails striking wood.
Her pulse hammered. The corner where the blurred figure had stood was empty now. But the tapping continued.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Her eyes followed the sound to the far wall. The wallpaper there sagged, bubbled from damp. And beneath it, the tapping grew louder.
"Please…" Ava whispered before she realized she'd spoken. "Don't."
The tapping stopped.
For a moment, the silence was almost worse.
Then—the wallpaper split.
Not from her hand, not from any knife or tool. From within. A tear, jagged and wet, crawled across the plaster, peeling itself back like skin. A breath gusted through, cold enough to prickle her skin. Ava stumbled backward, clutching the desk, her throat dry.
From inside the wall, something whispered. Not words, not yet, but the cadence of a mouth trying to form them. A wet sound. A tongue without shape.
Her legs moved before her mind did. She bolted for the door. The knob rattled beneath her hand, stuck. She yanked again, chest heaving. Still stuck.
The whisper behind her grew clearer, a gurgling attempt at speech.
Cho… sen…
Ava screamed, slamming her shoulder into the door. This time, it gave way, spilling her into the corridor. She fell hard onto the floorboards, skin scraping against the wood. Behind her, the study door swung shut with a deafening slam.
Silence.
Her breath tore through her lungs, ragged, broken. She crawled backward until her spine hit the opposite wall. Her eyes fixed on the study door. The knob no longer rusted, no longer old. Polished brass gleamed in the flickering light of the corridor lamp. The key was gone.
As though the room had never existed.
---
Ava didn't sleep that night. She couldn't.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the study's walls tearing open. She heard that voice gurgling through damp plaster. And always, the words came back—You are chosen.
By dawn, her body shook with exhaustion. She had buried herself in the living room chair, knees hugged to her chest, eyes locked on the stairwell. The house had fallen quiet again, too quiet, the kind of silence that was not rest but calculation.
At 8:00 AM sharp, the doorbell rang.
Ava jumped, her heart slamming against her ribs. No one rang her bell. No one visited. Slowly, she rose, her legs unsteady, and crept toward the door.
Through the peephole, she saw nothing but the hallway.
No shadow. No figure. No sound of retreating steps.
Her hand hovered above the knob. She wanted to ignore it, to step away, to pretend she hadn't heard. But something compelled her. The same compulsion that had made her open the study door.
She unlatched the chain and cracked it open.
A package sat on the mat. Brown paper, tied with rough twine. No return address, no stamp. Just her name scrawled in black ink: Ava Greenwood.
Her stomach dropped. No one here knew her surname. She hadn't given it to the landlord, not to the neighbors, not even to the clerk at the archives.
She brought the package inside, her fingers trembling as she tore the twine. Inside lay a single object:
A diary.
The leather cover was cracked, brittle, but the name on the front was legible. Elora Addington.
Ava's blood ran cold. Elora—the same name from the archive files. The same initials on the welcome note left in the kitchen.
She flipped it open. The first page bore a neat hand, dated 1897.
The house knows I'm here. It chose me, though I do not yet understand why. The walls move when I sleep. The doors shift. I hear him dragging his leg across the floor at night. He waits. He always waits.
Ava slammed the diary shut, bile rising in her throat. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She didn't want to read more. And yet, she couldn't stop.
The next entry read:
He comes when the house grows hungry. I thought it was only shadow, but shadows don't breathe. Shadows don't leave mud on the stairs. He knocked once. Only once. They say if you open the door after one knock, you belong to him. I didn't open it. Not then. But I heard my name whispered through the cracks. He knows me. He will not leave.
Ava's hands shook so violently she nearly dropped the diary. She turned another page, ink smeared and frantic:
Do not trust the landlord. He brings them here. He feeds it. The house is not bricks. Not wood. It remembers every soul it keeps. And it has chosen me. It will not let me go.
The last entry trailed off, ink smudged as though the writer's hand had been pulled mid-sentence:
If you find this—
Then nothing.
The page was torn.
---
Ava stumbled to her feet, clutching the diary to her chest. She couldn't stay. Not another night. Not another minute.
But when she turned toward the door, her breath caught.
The bolts were drawn. The chain fastened. She hadn't touched them.
And on the inside of the wood, scratched deep into the grain, were three words:
YOU ARE CHOSEN.
---
The words carved into the door seared themselves into Ava's eyes.
YOU ARE CHOSEN.
Her breath hitched, raw, strangled. She staggered backward, slamming against the wall. The diary slid from her hands and hit the floor with a heavy thud. For one moment, silence hung thick. Too thick.
Then came the sound.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
From the walls. From the ceiling. From the very floor beneath her feet. Hundreds of invisible claws dragging, searching, testing. The air curdled with the sound, filling her head until she thought her skull would split.
Her knees gave way. She clutched her ears, pressing her palms hard against her head, but the scratching seeped through skin and bone. Tears blurred her vision. Her lips parted, and for the first time, words tumbled out not to herself, not to the house, but upward—desperate, pleading.
"Lord Jesus… please—please protect me!" Her voice cracked, torn by terror. "In the name of Christ, save me from this place!"
The scratching stopped.
Dead silence.
Ava's chest heaved. Her pulse pounded in her throat. For a heartbeat, she thought the prayer had worked—that the name of her God had cut through whatever lived in these walls.
But then, the air shifted.
The silence was not retreat. It was listening.
The corridor lamps sputtered, then flared, bathing the hall in sickly yellow light. The wallpaper rippled, as though a breath pushed from behind it. And then—low, guttural, mocking—the whisper returned.
"Not… yours."
The words slithered from every direction, surrounding her, vibrating through the timber beams. Ava's eyes widened, tears streaming down her face. She screamed, her voice breaking, "The Lord is my shepherd—I shall not want! Deliver me from evil! Please!"
Her cry ricocheted through the house. For a moment, the words seemed to fight, colliding with the suffocating air. The corridor shook—the chandelier above rattled violently, dust pouring down in a choking rain.
And then—the laughter came.
Not human. Not one voice. A chorus of them. Male, female, child, all layered into one hideous mockery. They laughed from the ceiling, from beneath the floorboards, from inside the walls themselves.
Ava pressed her back against the door, clutching the cross pendant around her neck. She had worn it since she was twelve, a gift from her mother. Now it burned against her palm, almost too hot to hold, but she gripped tighter.
"In the name of Jesus Christ, I command you—leave me!"
The laughter snapped off.
Her ears rang in the sudden void. The silence that followed was so absolute it made her stomach twist. She didn't trust it, couldn't. Her breath came in shallow gulps, each one scraped raw by the air that clung to her throat.
Then—knock.
One single knock against the door she leaned on.
Her heart froze.
Slow. Deliberate. Heavy enough to rattle her spine.
Elora's diary screamed back into her memory: He knocked once. Only once. They say if you open the door after one knock, you belong to him.
Ava bit her lip until she tasted blood. Her whisper was broken, frantic. "God, don't let me open it. Please don't let me open it."
But her hand… moved.
Against her will, her fingers rose from the cross at her throat and drifted toward the knob. She tried to fight, muscles trembling, veins burning with the effort, but her own body betrayed her. The air grew heavier, pushing, guiding.
"No!" she shrieked. "In Christ's name—stop!"
The hand froze inches from the knob. Ava collapsed to her knees, sobbing, body wracked with tremors. The unseen pressure relented, but not entirely. The house seemed amused.
The knock came again. Once. Louder.
Boom.
The force jolted her forward, forehead nearly striking the wood.
And then—the voice. Right at her ear, whispering through the door.
"Ava…"
Her scream ripped through the house. She clutched her pendant, shouting verses she half-remembered, words tangled with her sobs. "Deliver me, O Lord, from my enemies! Preserve me from those who rise up against me!"
The house responded with a groan so deep it shook the windows. Plaster rained from the ceiling. The walls buckled as though they would split, but they didn't. Instead, they leaned closer. Listening.
Waiting.
The pendant seared her skin now, glowing faintly as her voice grew hoarse. She screamed until her throat tore, until every nerve in her body burned.
Then—everything stopped.
The scratching.
The laughter.
The pressure.
Gone.
Only her broken sobs filled the corridor.
The silence that followed was not peace. It was retreat. Calculation. The house had not been banished. It had yielded. Watching. Waiting.
Ava slumped against the floor, her pendant clutched to her chest, her voice a rasp: "God… don't let me belong to it… please…"
From the shadows above, the whisper came again.
So soft, she almost thought it was her own mind.
"…chosen."
And the house exhaled.
---
Seriously, I am Muslim, not Christian.The reason why I added a sentence like that, is to show the tension and horror!! I know this sentence because I watch a lot of horror films that contain things like... that, a woman who is possessed by the devil!! If there are any mistakes in my words, I apologize.Eh... is that Catholic or Christian?!🤔.Skip✋🏻. Okay, let's continue the story!
---
Ava stumbled back against the wall, chest heaving as the whisper dissolved into silence. The library, once merely unsettling, now felt suffocating. She pressed a trembling hand against her lips, forcing her breathing to steady. It's real. It's all real. No excuse could undo what she'd seen—the figure on the stairs, the crawling shadow, the voice that knew her name.
Her cross necklace—something she rarely noticed—suddenly felt heavy against her chest. She clutched it hard, whispering through chattering teeth, "Lord, protect me… don't let this thing touch me." The plea felt both desperate and grounding, the words trembling but sincere.
But the house wasn't finished with her.
The fire in the library's hearth sputtered, as if smothered by unseen hands. Then came the sound again: the dragging step, limp and uneven, circling the hall just beyond the door. One leg limps. One boot scrapes. Elora's words echoed, every syllable sinking like ice through Ava's spine.
She crept toward the door, every instinct telling her don't open it, yet knowing silence wouldn't save her. The brass knob was cold beneath her fingertips.
The hall was dark. Too dark. Shadows stretched unnaturally, swallowing what little light flickered from the wall lamps. Ava's eyes darted toward the staircase leading up—the attic door was ajar. The rope barrier that had once blocked it lay snapped in half, discarded.
And there—on the second step—was a figure.
A man, tall but bent, his coat ragged and wet with some unnameable stain. His head hung low, black hair matted over his face. His right leg dragged behind him with a sickening scrape, leather boot leaving streaks of mud on the floor.
He was looking straight at her.
"Ava…"
Her scream tore free before she could stop it. "JESUS, SAVE ME!"
The figure twitched, head jerking unnaturally, as though the name itself burned him. He staggered back a step, his boot scraping louder, shrill against the wooden stair. His breath rattled like dry leaves caught in a storm.
Ava slammed the door shut and shoved the nearest chair against it, heart hammering so hard she thought it might burst. Her tears blurred the edges of the room. "God, please—please don't let it in, please—"
The dragging grew louder. Step. Scrape. Step. Scrape. The knob rattled. Then stopped.
Silence.
Ava sank to her knees, clutching her necklace, every muscle taut with fear. Minutes passed, or hours—she couldn't tell. The manor's silence was worse than noise, an oppressive weight pressing down on her chest.
Then—
knock…
Soft. Deliberate. Right against the wood of the library door.
She clamped her hand over her mouth, choking back a sob.
knock…
And then, low and rasping, the voice again—closer this time.
"Ava… open… the attic…"
---
The pounding of her heartbeat nearly drowned out everything else, but Ava couldn't ignore the sound that followed. Not just the knock. Not just the rasping voice.
Something scraped across the door—like nails, or claws, dragging slow and deliberate, leaving gouges in the wood. Ava's stomach twisted as the sharp sound carved itself into her bones. She wanted to run, but her legs refused to obey.
Then, silence.
The air shifted—colder, heavier. The candles on the side table flickered and went out all at once, plunging the room into suffocating darkness.
Her breath shook. She clutched her necklace tighter, whispering through tears, "Lord Jesus, don't let it touch me, don't let it in."
And for a moment—there was peace. The footsteps retreated, dragging slower, fading toward the hall. Ava collapsed forward, her forehead pressed to the rug, sobbing from the release of tension.
But then, her eyes caught something in the faint moonlight streaming through the tall windows.
A diary. Not Elora's—this one lay on the lowest shelf of the library, as though placed there deliberately. Its cover was dark leather, cracked with age.
Her hands trembled as she picked it up, a dread certainty already in her chest. When she opened to the first page, the ink inside bled into her mind with chilling clarity:
"January 14th, 1889. I took the oath tonight. My blood sealed his return."
Ava's mouth went dry.
The entries grew darker with every turn: rituals performed in the manor, sacrifices whispered, promises exchanged with something never named. Over and over, one figure was mentioned—the crippled man.
Her pulse roared. The thing outside the door wasn't just a ghost. It was something summoned. Bound.
And then she saw it—her own name.
"He will call to her. The girl of the cross. The one who carries His name upon her lips. She is the key to break the chain."
The book slipped from her fingers, landing open on the rug. Her vision blurred with terror.
"No… no, that's not possible…"
As if in answer, the door rattled again—harder this time. Dust rained from the frame. A guttural growl seeped through the cracks, words twisted by hatred and hunger:
"Ava… you will open it…"
The library's windows slammed shut on their own, the glass rattling in their panes. The fire roared to life without spark, flames clawing unnaturally high.
Ava screamed, clutching her cross until her knuckles whitened. "LORD, COVER ME WITH YOUR BLOOD! I BELONG TO YOU!"
For the first time, silence followed. The house stilled. The growl receded.
And faintly, barely audible, a whisper answered from the attic above:
"…not yet."
---
The silence that followed was worse than the growl. Ava remained frozen in the center of the library, her cross pressed so tight against her palm that the edges dug into her skin. The fire in the hearth hissed, burning too brightly, too hot, though no wood had been added. Shadows rippled against the walls, writhing like living things.
She forced herself to move, snatching the diary from the rug, clutching it against her chest. "This isn't real. It can't be real," she whispered, her voice cracked, desperate.
But as she turned toward the door, her body went cold.
The handle moved.
Not rattling—turning. Slowly. Deliberately.
Ava stumbled back, her knees buckling. "No—no, stay out!" she cried. Her voice broke as she shouted, "JESUS, PLEASE, COVER THIS HOUSE WITH YOUR BLOOD!"
The handle stopped. The door did not open. But something breathed on the other side, deep, guttural, rasping. Then it moved away.
The relief was short-lived.
Above her, the ceiling groaned. The attic. Again.
Dust sifted down from the beams as if something heavy had shifted directly overhead. The sound repeated—thump… drag… thump… drag… A limp. A boot scrape.
The crippled man.
Her chest tightened. Ava clutched the diary closer, her legs trembling as she forced herself out of the library. The hall beyond stretched longer than before, warped, as though the house itself had shifted its bones. Windows that had once faced the gardens now showed only darkness, as if the night had swallowed every star.
She tried the front door. Locked. She twisted the bolt, yanked the handle, slammed her shoulder against it—nothing. It would not move.
The walls creaked around her. A low moan rose from the floorboards, vibrating beneath her feet like the groan of a living thing. Ava staggered back, pressing herself against the wall, her heart hammering.
"This isn't a house," she whispered, recalling the diary's words. "It's not a house at all."
The lamps along the corridor flared at once, flooding the space with a sickly yellow glow. And in that light—she saw them.
Faces.
Pressed against the wallpaper, their outlines bulging through plaster like corpses trapped beneath thin ice. Eyes stretched wide, mouths frozen in silent screams. Their skin was gray, their features blurred, but their agony was clear. One face turned, its hollow gaze locking onto her.
Ava screamed, bolting up the stairs. She didn't know why—only that the hallway was closing in, the very walls seemed to pulse with breath.
Halfway up the staircase, the air grew icy. Her candle guttered, nearly dying, before a gust blew it out completely. She froze in darkness.
Then—whispers.
Not one voice, but dozens. Overlapping. Layered. Some begging. Some cursing. Some chanting words she couldn't understand.
Her hands shook violently. "In the name of Jesus Christ—leave me alone!"
For a heartbeat, the voices stopped.
Then, one broke through, clear as glass, echoing from above:
"Ava. Upstairs."
She didn't want to go. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to curl into a ball, to close her eyes and pray until morning. But the diary's weight in her arms, the suffocating presence all around her—it was guiding her, herded her like prey toward the attic.
With trembling steps, Ava climbed. Each footfall echoed like a drumbeat in her skull. The rope barrier at the top hung limp, cut clean as though severed. The attic door loomed, its surface scarred with deep gouges, as if something inside had clawed to be free.
The knob turned on its own.
And the door creaked open.
---