The town of Willowcrest had many legends, but none as haunting as the tale of Whispering Lake. Locals said that the water could talk—and those who listened never returned the same. It wasn’t just a myth to scare kids; strange disappearances over the decades kept the story alive, even though no bodies were ever found.

One rainy autumn evening, five friends—Mira, Ben, Olivia, Trent, and Jenny—decided to visit the lake. It started as a dare, fueled by boredom and teenage bravado. They brought flashlights, snacks, and a cheap portable radio, planning to prove once and for all that Whispering Lake was just another spooky campfire story.

The trail leading to the lake was overgrown, as if the

forest itself wanted to swallow it whole. Cold mist clung to their ankles as the distant hum of cicadas gave way to an unsettling quiet. When they arrived, the lake was unnaturally still. No ripples. No wind. Just black, glassy water stretching out like an endless void.

"Looks pretty normal to me," Trent said, tossing a pebble into the water.

The pebble landed with a strange plunk, and then... silence again.

"See? No monsters. No ghosts," Trent scoffed, waving his flashlight dramatically. But Mira felt something, deep in her bones—a heaviness, like the forest was watching.

Then it began.

At first, it was faint, like a low whisper on the wind. Olivia froze. "Did you guys hear that?" she whispered.

Everyone went quiet. There it was again—a soft, unintelligible voice, like someone trying to speak underwater. Mira’s heart raced as the whispers seemed to rise from the surface of the lake, circling them. The whispers grew louder, weaving together into words.

"Why did you come?"

The friends exchanged terrified glances.

Ben tried to laugh it off. "Okay, who’s pranking us? Did someone hide a speaker out here?"

Suddenly, the radio they brought crackled to life, though

no one had turned it on. Through the static, they heard more voices, familiar ones.

"Jenny... Jenny... we see you."

Jenny gasped and clutched Trent’s arm. "What the hell? That’s my sister’s voice!" Her sister had drowned in this very lake five years ago.

The group panicked. Olivia grabbed Jenny’s hand, pulling her toward the path. "We need to leave. Now."

But the forest didn’t let them. The trail they came in on was gone, swallowed by fog and shadow. Everywhere they turned, the dense trees loomed closer, pressing them back toward the lake.

And then, something began to emerge from the water.

At first, it looked like a human figure, but the closer it came, the more unnatural it seemed. Its body shimmered like liquid, shifting between shapes—a man, a child, an old woman—all of them faces the friends vaguely recognized. The thing smiled, and when it spoke, its voice was a twisted chorus of those they'd lost.

"Stay... Stay with us."

Ben screamed and sprinted toward the woods, but before he could reach the treeline, the ground gave way beneath him, like the forest itself was alive. He vanished into the earth without a sound. The others tried to run, but every step seemed heavier, as if invisible hands were pulling them down.

Mira fought against the pull, dragging Olivia with her, but Jenny let go. She walked slowly toward the water, her face slack and eyes glazed. "They want me..." she whispered, stepping into the lake without hesitation. The water welcomed her, rising up to meet her like an old friend.

"Jenny! No!" Olivia shrieked, but it was too late. Jenny disappeared beneath the surface with a smile on her lips.

The whispers grew louder, their cadence like a lullaby. "Come. Rest. Stay."

Mira knew they had to leave—now. Grabbing Olivia’s hand tighter, she yanked her friend forward. They didn’t look back. They didn’t listen to the whispers.

Somehow, they stumbled out of the forest, emerging onto the road leading back to Willowcrest. Gasping for breath, Mira looked around—Ben and Trent were gone. Olivia collapsed to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.

The town didn’t believe their story, of course. Ben, Trent, and Jenny were simply added to the growing list of "missing" people linked to Whispering Lake. Search parties were sent, but no one found a trace.

Weeks later, Mira sat by her window, trying to shake the feeling that she was being watched. Then, one night, she heard it—the whispers, seeping through her bedroom walls. A familiar voice called her name.

"Mira... come back to us."

The next morning, her bed was empty. Only a damp, muddy footprint remained on the windowsill.

And the lake? It waits. It always waits. For those curious enough to listen.

The end

Blood Home

The old Fairmont estate had stood on the outskirts of town for more than a century, looming over the valley like a silent sentinel. No one lived there anymore, not since the Lawson family vanished without a trace in 1954. The house was known to locals as Blood Home, though no one ever dared say why aloud. But rumors were enough—stories of strange lights at night, distant whispers carried on the wind, and red stains that appeared on the walls, no matter how many times they were scrubbed away.

Sam and his sister Emily didn’t believe in ghosts. They had moved to Willow Springs with their mother, and when she inherited the Fairmont estate from a distant,

long-forgotten relative, they figured it would be their fresh start. A free house in this economy? Lucky break.

But as soon as they crossed the threshold, something shifted.

The air inside was stale, heavy with the scent of iron. The walls seemed to hum, almost like they were waiting for something—or someone. The grand staircase creaked beneath their feet as they explored the vast, empty rooms. Dust coated every surface, but there was something strange about the layout: every room felt... too large, as if the walls were stretched, making space for something unseen.

Emily brushed it off with a laugh. “This place just needs a

good cleaning.”

But Sam couldn’t shake the unease. He felt like they weren’t alone.

That first night, Sam awoke to the sound of scratching—slow, deliberate, and close. It was coming from the walls. He sat up, heart pounding, straining to listen. Emily was asleep in the next room, and their mother was downstairs. But the sound persisted, dragging across the wooden frame like nails against bone.

He pressed his ear to the wall.

Scratch. Scratch.

And then, just beneath the surface, he heard something else: a voice.

"Let us out."

Sam leapt back, his heart racing. It sounded like multiple voices, layered together—pleading, desperate, and angry. He stumbled out of his room, rushing down the hall to wake Emily, but she was already sitting up in bed, pale as a sheet.

“Did you hear it too?” she whispered.

The next morning, their mother acted as if nothing was wrong, but Sam and Emily knew better. Every wall in the house seemed to pulse, as if the house itself was alive, breathing, waiting. Strange stains appeared along the walls overnight—dark crimson streaks that looked like veins spreading through plaster. Their mother blamed

old pipes, dismissing their fears.

But the house had other plans.

Over the following nights, the voices grew louder. Sometimes they begged. Other times, they laughed, cold and mocking. And soon, the stains began to spread—under the floorboards, across the windows, creeping into their dreams.

Sam woke one night to find Emily standing at the edge of his bed, her eyes vacant, hands streaked with blood. “They’re hungry,” she whispered, as if in a trance. “We have to feed them.”

He grabbed her shoulders, shaking her awake. She blinked, horrified at her own hands, and they both knew:

the house wasn’t just haunted—it was feeding off them.

They tried to leave, but every attempt was thwarted. Doors locked themselves. Windows refused to open. The air grew colder, and with every passing hour, the walls seemed to close in tighter, trapping them in a twisted embrace.

Their mother? She wasn’t their mother anymore. She drifted through the halls, her skin pale and her eyes sunken, murmuring words in a language they didn’t understand. She would smile at strange moments, and once Sam swore he saw her bite her own hand, letting blood drip onto the floor as if offering it to the house.

The house thirsted. And it would never let them go.

On the fifth night, Sam found the source of the voices. A door in the basement, hidden behind an old bookshelf, sealed shut with chains and rusted nails. Emily begged him not to open it, but the whispers were louder than ever now, calling his name over and over.

“Maybe if we let them out, we can escape,” Sam said, though he wasn’t sure if the thought was his own or the house’s.

He pried off the nails, each one groaning as if they held back more than just a door. The chains rattled loose, and with trembling hands, he pulled it open.

Beyond the door was a room—dark and suffocating, the walls lined with bones. Old, cracked skulls grinned from

the corners, and the floor was slick with blood that never dried. In the center of the room lay something alive—a pulsing mass of flesh and sinew, bound in thick roots that squirmed as if breathing.

The thing stirred, sensing them. A hundred mouths opened across its surface, whispering, screaming, and laughing all at once.

"Home. You’ve brought us home."

The mass lunged, tendrils of flesh bursting from the walls, wrapping around Sam and Emily. They fought, but it was no use. The house had waited too long, and now it was feeding again—taking what was owed.

The next morning, the neighbors saw the family car in

the driveway, but the Fairmont house stood eerily silent. When they knocked on the door, no one answered.

Inside, the walls were clean. No blood. No stains. Only a few family photographs, sitting untouched on the mantel—a mother and her two children, smiling as if they belonged.

And deep in the basement, behind the sealed door, the whispers began anew, waiting for the next family to come home.

Because Blood Home never lets anyone leave.

It only welcomes more.

  The End

Pinky’s Party - Part 3: The Guests That Never Left