The Haunted Abandoned Manor

The manor had stood for decades at the edge of the forest, its windows broken, its halls echoing with silence. Villagers called it cursed. Children dared one another to step inside, but none ever stayed long.

They said seven members of a family had been murdered there one stormy night, and since then, the manor breathed only emptiness. Years passed, but the manor remained untouched—until a group of friends, curious and reckless, decided to explore it one October evening. The sky was bruised with clouds, the air heavy with rain.

Laughter masked their nerves as they pushed open the rusted gates. Inside, the air smelled of damp wood and dust.

Portraits hung crooked on the walls, their eyes scratched out. Every step groaned under their weight, as if the house itself was warning them to leave. In the grand dining room, one of them, Ravi, gasped.

A severed hand twitched on the floor, its fingers curling as though alive. The others froze, unsure if it was a trick of their imagination.

But then a voice—low, guttural, and broken—spoke from nowhere: “Why… did you come back?” The group huddled together, their flashlights flickering. In the mirror above the fireplace, an eye rolled into view—wet, bloodshot, staring directly at them.

The reflection warped, showing a face that was not theirs: hollow cheeks, jagged teeth, and terror frozen in its expression. Then came the sound. Not footsteps—too heavy, too many.

It was as if all seven members of the murdered family were walking at once. The walls bled with whispers, recounting fragments of that night: “Run—he’s coming—please don’t—” One by one, the friends began to see more pieces of the horror: an arm dragging itself along the floor, a face pressed against the window from the inside, a body slumped in a corner that dissolved whenever approached.

Each fragment carried the same expression of agony. Maya, the boldest of the group, screamed into the darkness, “What do you want from us?” The house seemed to inhale. Then, in a chorus of voices—men, women, children—the answer came: “Witness.”

 The lights died. In the suffocating blackness, the friends felt cold hands clutch their shoulders, icy breath against their ears. Some swore they felt nails digging into their skin. Others heard sobbing, as though the victims themselves begged to be remembered.

 When the flashlights flickered back on, the dining table was set—plates cracked, cutlery stained with something dark. Seven chairs were filled with twisted shapes, shadows of the murdered family, their mouths stretched in silent screams. The friends bolted, stumbling out of the manor into the stormy night.

They never spoke of what they saw, but each carried scars—some on their arms, some only in their dreams. The manor still stands, waiting. Its windows gape like eyes, its halls echo like a throat ready to speak.

And when the wind howls through its broken doors, villagers swear they can hear the voices of that night, calling anyone brave—or foolish—enough to enter again.