I alwsys cherish my childhood days, full of fun and excitement. What I like most was the bed time stories. Not one but there were many story teller in the home. Sometimes it was my Dad, or the next my Mom or my sister or brother. It was fun to be the youngest at home, as I used to get numerous quality of stories from different person. Stories ghat becomes an importanr memory of childhood. Generally, as we grows older, we unable to recall them, only few of them remain afresh in our mind. One such story which I still remember from my Dad was a horror one. Something that makes me to hold him tight and feel safe.
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I heard this story number of times from his mouth, especially whenever we visited our native village in remote areas. There was a old house right at the edge of the mountain, which alwsys intrigued me. I wanted to go there while my Dad wanted me not to go. To stop my curiosity, he alwsys told me a story and it goes like this :
The old, creaky house on the hill had been vacant for years, its windows perpetually dark, reflecting the town's unspoken fear. The old house stood alone on the hill, its shadowed windows like vacant eyes staring out at the desolate landscape. Mohan, a young photographer seeking inspiration, had rented it for a weekend, drawn to its eerie beauty and the rumors of a tragic past. As dusk fell, he set up his tripod in the grand, dust-laden living room, the only light coming from the dying embers in the fireplace.
A sudden draft rattled the antique mirror on the mantle, and Mohan swore he saw a fleeting glimpse of a woman in a long, white gown reflected in its surface. He dismissed it as a trick of the light, but as he continued shooting, a chilling sensation crept up his spine. The shadows seemed to dance, twisting and contorting into grotesque shapes. The old clock on the wall began to chime, each toll echoing through the room like a mournful cry.
When he reviewed the photos on the camera screen, he noticed something unsettling. A faint, spectral figure appeared in the background of several shots, its face obscured by darkness, its eyes piercing through the veil of the image. Fear gnawed at him, and he decided to leave the house before nightfall.
But as he attempted to open the front door, it wouldn't budge. Panic surged through him as he realized the doorknobs were frozen in place. He tried the windows, but they too were sealed shut. The house was trapping him. And he never came out of that house. The old house on the hill remained, its secrets locked away, waiting for the next unsuspecting soul to venture into its haunted embrace.
Listening to such stories, never let me to ask him to visit the house. I remain afraid of being trapped inside. So never wanted to be a next victim. It was scary and creepy. But still worth listening. Now that house is no more.
This is my entry to Day-8 of "Inleo Writing prompt" for the month of September. Please check here for the prompt details.
Peace!!
Namaste @steemflow
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