House of Horrors || 18+

Chapter 1| Hannah

I needed to escape.

Escape from my mother, who loved alcohol more than me, from an ex-boyfriend who brought nothing but pain, and from friends who were never really friends at all.

So, I made a choice to start anew. A choice that led me to Maine.

I stumbled upon a house online. It was surprisingly cheap, almost too good to be true. But I took the chance. I trusted what I saw in those few pictures and bought it. My belongings were quickly packed, and in less than two weeks, I was traveling across the country to my new beginning.

That's the power of determination, I guess.

Driving towards my new home, my heart pounds with anticipation. But as the neighborhood comes into view, my excitement turns to confusion. It isn't at all what I had pictured. Not even close.

Pulling up to the address I had written down, I find myself staring in disbelief. The house in front of me looks like it's from a different era, like something from the early 1900s; a relic from the days of my great-grandparents.

I quickly call the seller, hoping for some mistake. But no, he confirms this was indeed the place, then hangs up abruptly without another word. Had he sold me an abandoned house?

Stepping out of my car, I approach the house. It looms large, a giant from the 19th century. Each window is guarded by shutters, and a small, creaky porch seems to groan under my weight. Beside the house is a vast, untamed garden, untouched by time or care.

This is my new home. A forgotten piece of history, now mine to revive.

Turning the key in the lock, I hesitate for just a moment before pushing open the front door. A burst of dust greets me, swirling into the air and making me cough. I frantically wave my hands, trying to clear the dusty cloud.

As my eyes adjust, the interior of the house slowly reveals itself. Surprisingly, it is beautiful. The paint on the walls, still vibrant, made the rooms look almost cheerful. Furniture sits undisturbed, as if waiting for its owners to return.

The house feels like it was simultaneously frozen in time and yet forgotten for years.

Dust and cobwebs drape over every surface, and here and there, the wallpaper is torn, revealing patches of bare wall. Despite this, everything was oddly in its place, as if the house has been paused mid-breath.

The air is thick with the musty scent of dust and mold, a reminder of the immense task ahead of me. Cleaning this place will be a monumental effort, but something inside me whispers that it can be done.

Maybe this can be home.

Curiosity leads me to explore each room, each with its own unique personality. One room, bathed in baby pink, holds a little girl's bed and scattered dolls. It's almost like stepping into a memory. But among the toys, one doll captures my attention.

Sealed in a box, the doll is pristine, untouched by time. Bending down, I pick it up, and my breath catches in my throat. The doll is a mirror image of me, down to the clothes I wore the day I bought the house. My heart races.

This can't be real.

"It's just a coincidence," I whisper, trying to convince myself. But the resemblance is uncanny. I hastily put the doll back, sliding the box under the bed with the others, and leave the room, my mind reeling.

The next room is cloaked in black, with shelves upon shelves of books. My fingers trail over the spines, stirring up more dust. Among the books are some of Jane Austen's classics, their familiar titles a comforting sight. This might be my new favorite room. I have dozens of books, so the empty spaces on these bookshelves will be filled eventually. Once I actually get my things.