Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 3 Haunted House Horror Stories

Episode Date: October 17, 2025

Behind every door, something waits — these haunted house stories will remind you why some homes should never be entered, and some sounds should never be followed. Fall is here, and so is our new Pumpkin Spice Coffee — a cozy medium roast with cinnamon and nutmeg that tastes like autumn itself. Go to NoSleepCoffee.com and use code NOSLEEP20 for 20% off your first order! Support the show and get more of what you love — bonus episodes, ad-free listening, and early access: ⁠patreon.com/drnosleep Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com New Book Releases: https://www.amazon.com/Matthew-G-Doggett/e/B08FD5378Z * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Story one, the death house. Hello, I say to the pale little boy playing in the front yard. He looks up at me where I stand in the grass nearby. The movers are busy carting stuff into the house behind me. What's your name? I ask. I'm Owen. The kid seems to study me with big blue eyes in a splotchy, cherubic face, one hand still on his baby Yoda doll.

Shane, he says after a moment. I wonder if the kid is sick or if he just looks like this all the time. Are your parents around, Shane? I know his parents are inside. I watched them go into the house from next door just before the moving truck pulled up. But I dare not even set foot on the porch.

Not of that house. I feel weird about being this close to the place as it is. Hello? Can I help you? Someone calls from the house. I look up to see a woman in her early 40s hustling out of the house, wearing a tank top in jeans. Yeah, I'm your neighbor, Owen. I live next door.

I gesture at the craftsman to the right of their new home. Oh, yes. The woman says, now sounding less defensive. I met your parents yesterday. I'm Melissa Ware, and this is Shane. I hesitate. My parents didn't tell me they had met the new neighbors. What did they say? The woman caulks an eyebrow as she stops next to her son. I shake my head.

I mean, did they tell you about this? house is history? The woman looks confused for a moment, and then understanding comes over her sharp featured face. Oh, you're talking about the previous owners. Yes, the real estate agent legally had to disclose that to us. She glances down at her son, throwing me a be careful what you say around him look. But you guys still bought the house? I ask. Even though... Mrs. Ware laughed. Yes, Owen. Your parents did tell me what you thought about the house. But I can assure you it's not true. I bite the inside of my cheek and glance at my house,

thinking of ways to piss my parents off. They talked to this woman about me and about the house already. Well, I just wanted to warn you, I say in a sour tone. The house is dangerous. It is? Shane asks, looking up at us. He's been busy playing, but apparently he's also been listening. No, honey, it's not.

This young man is mistaken. Her voice is now stony. Mom, who's this? I glance over Mrs. Ware's shoulder to see a teenage girl about my age walking toward us. Butterflies immediately start banging around in my stomach. Dark hair, fair skin, a nose ring, just my type. This is our new neighbor from next door. His name is Owen.

Owen, this is my daughter, Melody. I stutter a greeting, looking into Melody's striking green eyes as I shake her hand. She smiles at me. Many intense emotions roiled through me, but one horrible thought settles on top of them all. This family is in danger. I already know Mrs. Ware isn't going to give my concerns the time of day, but maybe Melody will. Plus, it'll give me an excuse to talk to her. Awkwardly and with her mother watching like a prison guard, I ask for Melody's number,

saying I can show her around the neighborhood. We exchange numbers, and I head back home. formulating a plan to warn Melody about the house they've just moved into. The last people to live in the haunted house next door were the Overstreet's. Aside from having a strange name, they seemed like a normal family of three. Their son, Titus, was a few years younger than me at 12 when I was 15. This was three years ago. They lived there long enough to see Titus turn 13.

A better way to put it would be to say they were all killed by the house. Investigator said Mr. Overstreet snapped and spent nearly 36 hours torturing his wife and son before someone called the police. That was me. I called them. When they arrived, according to the official story, Mr. Overstreet finished his family off before killing himself. But I know better, because I saw what was happening in that house. And Mr. Overstreet wasn't the perpetrator. I've never been very good at talking to girls. but I find it easy to text Melody. Funny what a life or death situation will do for your mental fortitude.

But I don't want to hit her with a bunch of stuff about her house being haunted, not right away. She'll just think I'm crazy and stop talking to me. I have to play the long game, or longish anyway. I've figured the overstreets lasted almost a year, so I should have a little time to convince Melody to convince her parents that they need to find a new place to live. even if it means one of the most gorgeous girls I've ever met will no longer be living near feet away from me. With this in mind, I spend a few days being surprisingly charming through text messages and a couple of in-person outings under the guise of showing her around.

We get along well, and since it's summer break, there's no school to get in the way of us hanging out. Now that I'm 18, and we'll be graduating soon, my parents have been hounding me about getting a job. job, but that can wait. I'm trying to save some lives here. Of course, I don't tell my parents that. They already think I'm half crazy for telling them what I saw the day I called the police on the overstreets. They, and the therapist they hired for me, think I saw some extreme violence that shocked me so bad I had to make up a story about a haunted house to avoid facing the fact that people are capable of true evil. And while it's true, I saw some things that will be seared into my head for the rest of my life, the haunted house story is not a cope.

It's 1,000% real. So on our fourth outing, as we walk around the fledgling mall, I try to find a way to broach the subject. We've mostly been making fun of all the stores with clothes and pastel or primary colors, telling each other we wouldn't be caught dead in them. Melody and I both prefer black clothes. Now, as we stroll along, we fall into a comfortable silence. We're passing the pet store when I spot a missing poster taped to the glass storefront. Holy shit. That kid goes to my school, I say, stopping. Melody reads the name below the picture. Boyd De Soto. Damn. Wonder where he went. Do you think he ran away? I shrug. I don't know him that well. Just seen him around. That sucks.

She says. We resume walking, and I see my chance. So, how are you like in the new house? Anything odd about it? Melody Cox an eyebrow at me, looking a lot like her mother did that first day. What do you mean? Like, is it haunted? She smiles, crookedly. My face flushes, and I look at my shoes. I guess you know the story. She grabs my hand, lacing her fingers through mine. It's a first, and I'm a first, and I I am immediately buzzing with excitement.

I know the story, and I believe it. But nothing has happened, and nothing is going to happen. Despite being fearful of the possibility of Melody ripping her hand for mine, I push back. How do you know? You can't know that. Her face becomes serious, and she leans close, pressing her side against mine. You can't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you, okay, Owen. Not anyone.

I nod. Okay, I won't tell anyone. What is it? She hesitates and then stops us so we're face to face. She grabs my other hand and looks into my eyes. I like you, Owen, and I hope you like me too. I hope this whole thing hasn't been about the house and that you really enjoy spending time with me because I definitely like spending time with you.

There's a question in there somewhere, so I answer it truthfully. I like you, Melody. A lot. Her emerald eyes bore into mine. I've never seen her like this. My parents know what they're doing, okay? They have some experience with this kind of stuff. I blink several times.

What kind of stuff? Wanted houses? Yeah, paranormal stuff. So just know that everything is under control. You don't have to worry about us, I promise. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you're

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And if you get stuck, Shopify's award-winning customer support is there for you 24-7. See less carts go abandoned and more sales go with Shopify and their shop pay button. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com slash DNS. Go to Shopify.com. com slash d n s that's shopify dot com slash d ns this throws me for a loop i'm so used to people disregarding my story i don't know what to do when someone acknowledges it okay i say lamely melody squeezes my hands tighter you can't tell anyone swear to me i swear she kisses me on the lips right here in the middle of the

mall and it's not a short kiss either Suddenly, I have other things on my mind than some stupid haunted house. My bedroom is on the second floor of our craftsmen, and one of its windows faces what I've come to call the death house. It's through this window that I first noticed something strange happening in that house, back when the overstreets lived in it. One thing my mother always did in the morning to wake me up was open my curtains to let the sunlight in.

I used to fight her by closing the curtains and going back to sleep. just say she didn't like that. I came home from school one day and found my curtains and blinds were gone. I warned you, she told me conversationally. I told you what would happen if you kept it up. It was true. She had told me. It was what started the whole thing. I soon became self-conscious about not having any privacy. Since that window looked across at Titus' bedroom, I found myself glancing over there to make sure I wasn't being watched. Not that the kid was a crue. creeper or anything. He had blinds, and they were usually closed, at least at night. But the sudden absence of my curtains just left me feeling naked. So one night, when I was getting

up to pee, I happened to glance out the window. Across the way, the blinds were open, and I could see right into Titus's room. The kid, blonde and skinny and otherwise average in every discernible way, was being held against his bedroom wall between his door and a Roblox poster. My first look was just a glance as I reached for my bedroom door, but I did a double-take, blinking the sleep from my eyes. Several arms protruded from the wall around Titus, all of them looking diseased and discolored, with open, oozing wounds and sharp yellow fingernails. They pressed the kid against the wall, cutting him shallowly on the abdomen with what looked to be butter knives. One of these hands was clamped over the kid's mouth, keeping him from screaming.

But his eyes were wide open in terror as he stared through the window at me. As I watched, a bloody gash opened in the wall behind Titus and swallowed him up. A moment later, the wall was just a wall again. No arms, no gash, no Titus. After standing there for a minute, wondering if it was a nightmare or not, I stumbled to the bathroom, took a piss, and went back to my room. I looked across and saw nothing out of the ordinary. I could only see about a foot of Titus' time.

his bed, and it wasn't enough to tell if he was in it. Dismissing the whole thing as a nightmare, I went back to sleep. I've long since earned my curtains back, but tonight I'm standing next to them, telling myself not to snoop on Melody and her family. It has been several days since our kiss at the mall, and Melody has been essentially M-I-A. We've texted a few times, but we haven't seen each other. And there has been little movement from the house next door.

which is exactly what worries me. Finally giving in to temptation, I part the curtains and peer across at what is now Shane's room. His blinds are drawn, blocking my view, just as they have been every other time I've glanced over. Despite Melody's assurances that everything is under control, I can't help but worry. She may think her parents have it under control,

but she hasn't seen what I have. She doesn't know what that house is capable of. A horrible possibility suddenly strikes me. What if the house has already infected her? What if it's the house acting through her to make me think everything is okay? Meanwhile, Melody's family is in more danger than ever. Still peering through the curtains, I pull out my phone and check the time. It's only just after 11, not too late to text Melody.

I draft a quick message, asking her if everything is okay. telling her I have a bad feeling because I do. I suddenly have a feeling very much like I did the night I saw the house killing the overstreet's. I don't care if Melody thinks I'm a pussy or not masculine enough for sending the message. I send it anyway, and I wait. After ten minutes of the message going unread, 10 minutes of arguing with myself, I finally decide I'll sneak into the backyard,

just like I did the night I saw the house killing the overstreets. Two minutes later, I'm jumping down from the wood slat fence, landing in their backyard. I sneak over to the window that I know looks into the dining room. As I approach, the memory of what happened to Titus plays in my head. Despite dismissing what I saw as a nightmare, I kept looking through my bedroom window after that. For a while, I saw Titus regularly, going about his life. Pretty soon, I got to know his schedule. And it became a source of comfort, seeing him doing his homework every evening or getting ready

for bed every night. It seemed like he was leading the life of an average middle-class kid. Not a thing wrong. Although, looking back, I knew something was wrong, because he looked more and more sickly every time I saw him. I now know that the house was draining him, and it had to be wiping his memory of the nightly torment. I wish I had known it then.

Then there came a day when Titus didn't show up in his room. He didn't do his homework in the afternoon, didn't get ready for bed in the evening. The next day, it was more of the same. But I had a feeling the Overstreet's were home, and something told me I should go over and check on them. So I did. When I got to the dining room window that night, I saw that I was right. All three members of the Overstreet family were there, held against the dining room wall by those hands. only they weren't just cutting shallow grooves on their skin.

They had knives and serving forks and ice picks and screwdrivers and razor blades. They were using them on the family, slicing them up a little at a time so the house could savour the pain and torment. Police said Mr. Overstreet cut himself before cutting his own wrists, but I knew better. The house had seen me, and it knew I had called the police. So it made it look like Mr. Overstreet had done it all. Now, as I peer through that same back-facing window, I breathe a ragged sigh of relief when I see that the room is empty.

No one is being held to the wall and sliced up with a gruesome hand clamped over their mouth. But I can't shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong. I checked my phone. Melody still hasn't messaged me back. I move along the back of the house and on to the back deck to the sliding glass door. I peer through a three-inch gap in the curtains, seeing only the empty. living room. Without thinking too much about it, I try to open the door. It's locked. I move to the other side of the house, careful not to fall into one of the basement window wells. As I'm peering

through a first floor window into the den, I hear a faint noise coming from the basement. Dropping to my hands and knees next to the window well, I listen, hearing muffled whimpers. My already high blood pressure shoots to the roof. It's happening again. I can't see through the window because it's blacked out from inside with curtains. I quickly dismiss trying to get in through the basement window because the well is too narrow to fit me. But I have to find a way into the house. I can't let it happen again. I get to my feet and try to open the nearest window. It doesn't budge. Stepping back, I look around for a rock or something to break the glass with. But a noise from the window draws my attention back to it, and I see that it's open a crack. Did I just imagine it being closed?

Am I too panicked to notice that it was already open? Shaking my head, I decide it doesn't matter. I shoved the pain up and crawl inside the house, finding myself in the den. As I move out of the room, searching for the basement door, I pull my phone out and dial 911. As I move down a hallway, something jolts my arm, causing me to drop my phone. I whip my head behind me, expecting to see someone standing there, having just hit my arm. But the hallway is empty. Facing forward again, I go to pick up my phone.

It's gone. Panic grips my heart, and I suddenly realize where I am. I've been so concerned with Melody and her family that I didn't have a moment to be scared of the house. But now I'm inside of it, and the fear comes, making up for lost time. I turn around to run back into the den to get out. But before I've taken two steps, I hear Melody calling for help from downstairs. She's calling my name. I stop, looking toward the den, where the open window were working.

waits. But I already know I can't leave. I have to help them. I can't let it happen again. Spinning around, I resume my search for the basement door, soon finding it. I'm halfway down the wooden stairs when I bring the scene into view in the unfinished basement. As I stare, I struggle to make sense of it. Melody has her back to me. She sits on the basement floor, forming one point of a triangle with her mother and father as the other two. In the middle of that triangle is the missing kid from school. Boyd De Soto. Rotten, decrepit arms protrude from the concrete floor, gripping Boyd as he struggles and whimpers. Floating face down in the air, several feet above Boyd is Melody's little brother, Shane. Smokey tendrils whirled between the two boys. Everyone but Boyd has

their eyes closed. When he sees me looking over the stairwell railing, he shouts against the hand over his mouth. I look at the candles set about the room. Their flames much larger than they should be. Thick black curtains hang over the windows. Exposed wood joists line the walls and ceiling. None of this makes any sense. Then it hits me. The house has infected them. It's using them to feed it.

Maybe they thought they could control it, but now it's controlling them. A vision jumps into my head unbidden, of gruesome hands reaching out of the floor to grab melody. They dig their sharp nails into her skin, ripping her flesh off as she screams and struggles. I can't let that happen. I rush down the stairs and do the first thing that comes to mind.

I start knocking candles over and shouting, trying to break them from their spell. It doesn't work. Melody's eyes remain closed, and now that I'm closer, I can see some of those smoky tendrils flowing to and from her. Same with her parents. They seem to floy out of Boyd and into the three making up the triangle, before leaving them again and disappearing into Shane. I'm vaguely aware that one of the candles I knocked over has caught some curtains on fire.

Good. This house must be destroyed once and for all, but not before I get the wares out to safety. I run up to Melody and grab her by the shoulders, shaking her as I scream her name. Finally, her eyes open slowly and reluctantly. She looks drugged, pupils large and unfocused. Then her eyelids widen, and she grabs my arms. Owen? What are you doing? She sees the growing fire at the wall. The flames lick at the exposed beams, devouring them as the fire grows. We need to leave! shout, noticing for the first time that Shane is no longer floating as high as he was earlier.

Boyd is still shouting against the hand over his mouth. I wonder briefly why the house hasn't attacked me yet. It doesn't matter. I'll take what I can get. What did you do? Melody shouts. Shane lowers more as his mother seems to come out of her trance. Melody shoves me away and yanks her brother from the air. The fire is covering one entire wall now. It seems to be spreading impossibly fast. We need to leave. Mom, get dad, Melody shouts. The house is on fire! I run around and try to help Mrs. Ware up, but she jerks away. Don't touch me, you idiot!

Still not understanding, I take a step toward Boyd, thinking I'll pry the arms off to free him. But I can see that I'm already too late. Sharp fingers dig into his flesh, causing blood to bubble up around them. Four hands have hold of his head, and they're ripping it apart. Fingers gouge his eyes out, using the sockets for handholds. Others grip his jaw, snapping it, now allowing him to scream freely. I turn away as his face splits open in a splash of blood. The entire Ware family is rushing up the stairs.

The basement feels like an oven now, and I can barely make it to the stairs without getting badly burned by the growing fire. I make it outside a moment after the Ware family. We gather on the front lawn as the house continues to burn. The flames are now visible through the first floor windows. Soon, the whole house will be on fire. Shane has been transferred to his mother's arms. Oddly enough, the still unconscious kid

looks better than he did when I first met him. Melody stands on the grass, arms crossed, looking in shock at the house. Are you okay? I ask, going up to her with my arms out. I told you to mind your own fucking business, she screams, backing away from me. You don't know what you just did!

I stand gap-mouthed, looking at her. My arms still held out like an idiot. I heard you calling my name asking for me. for help. I finally manage. Melody shakes her head, tears streaming down her face. He was getting better. It was working. And now he's going to die because of you. Her mother and father both glare at me. Go home, Mr. Ware says. And if you tell anyone what you saw down there, we'll tell them you burnt the house down.

I hesitate, looking at Melody. Go home, she says. Stay away from me. It wasn't the house, I think. It was them. They abducted Boyd de Soto as some kind of twisted sacrifice to the house So they could make Shane better? He really is sick? As I turn to leave,

Something like a shockwave erupts from the burning house. I feel it sweep over me like a frigid winter wind ahead of a blizzard. Nausea causes me to stagger As I cross my yard toward the front porch. Then the sensation passes. Excited voices erupt from behind me. I glance over my shoulder

to see the Ware family rushing down the stairs. street on foot, their cars in the burning garage. Where are they going? I think morosely. People have started coming out of their houses. Distant sirens tell of help coming. I'm surprised that my parents aren't outside right now. After all, our houses are pretty close. The fire could easily spread. I opened the front door, thinking I'll have to wait them if they're still asleep. But as I come to the living room, something catches my eye through the gloom. I turn my attention that way, Seeing my mom and dad pinned to the wall with rotting, sharp-fingered hands. Melody's words repeat in my head.

You don't know what you just did! An ice cold hand grips my ankle. I look down just in time to see another arm erupt from the floor and grip my calf, digging its knife-like nails into my flesh. I scream in pain as I'm pulled to the floor. Story 2. Don't go in the cellar. Well, that's all I have to show you. I'll give you two some time to look around and discuss it yourselves.

Just holler if you need me. Smiling, I turn to leave the young couple in the living room. They're first-time homebuyers. I've been selling houses for long enough to spot them a mile away. What about the seller? The young man asks. He's wearing khaki shorts and a turquoise polo shirt. His words make my stomach cramp.

Cellar? I say, still smiling. I don't believe this house has a seller. The man and his wife look at each other. They seem like nice enough. people. He's handsome. She's pretty. They probably have a couple of kids. Just the thought of children running around this house makes me want to scream. The man, Mr. Greer, returns his gaze to me, a smirk on his face like he knows I'm lying. I don't think I'm that obvious, am I?

I found an old listing for this house on the wayback machine, Mr. Greer replies. It says there's a cellar, and my father told me that looking at the cellar is a good way to see if the house has good bones. Right, I say. Good bones. Well, if there's a cellar, I don't know about it. And I certainly haven't seen any entrance. I can call the office and see what we can dig up. How about that? That would be great. Okay, excuse me. I leave them in the living room and head upstairs to use the bathroom and pretend to call the office. After doing my business, I sit on the toilet with the lid closed and try to focus. The walls creak and swell around me. Echoing screams issue from inside the drains. To my left, a rotten human arm snakes out of the bathtub and grips the rim. The arm

belongs to a putrescent corpse, which sits up in the tub filled with viscous black liquid. The bathroom reeks, the putrid stench, threatening to expel the contents of my stomach. The corpse's face squirms with maggots. As its lidless, shriveled-d-armes, eyes stare at me above a lipless mouthful of snaggly teeth. I shut my eyes and clamped palms over my ears. It's not time. Slowly, the stench fades. I ease my hands away from my ears. The screams from the sink and tub drains have disappeared. Opening one eye, I see that the corpse has gone too. A scream careens through the house, prompting me to whip my head toward the closed door. This scream doesn't come from the drain.

It came from, the cellar. I lurch up from the toilet. Seconds later, I'm entering the kitchen. The pantry door is open, and beyond that, the false wall at the back of the storage room that leads to the cellar yawns like a freshly dug grave. How did they know? No!

I shout, running down the short flight of creaky wooden steps and into the cellar, which is lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the middle of the low ceiling. Help me! Mrs. Greer screams. She's kneeling on the floor next to Mr. Greer, or what's left of him. There's a giant mouth in the packed dirt floor, matching the one I saw on the corpse in the bedroom, except this one's large enough to fit a person inside it. The cinder block-sized rotting teeth are clamped around Mr. Greer's waist, his legs inside

the mouth. He's conscious, but his face is that of a man trying very hard to keep from passing out. Mrs. Greer has him by one arm, trying to drag him out of the huge mouth. I freeze at the foot of the stairs, crouching so I don't hit my head on the exposed beams. Finally, unable to hold it in any longer, Mr. Greer screams just as the teeth crunch through his body, cutting him in half at the waist. Mrs. Greer, still pulling her husband's arm, falls backward, dragging the top half of Mr. Greer with her. His intestines string out behind him.

I turn and rush back up the stairs, chased by Mrs. Greer's terrified screams. I slammed the disguised door at the top of the stairs and put my back against it, sliding down to sit as sobs work their way up from the depths of my body. Mrs. Greer's screams continue for a few interminable moments until a sickening crunch cuts them off. Show her to me, I say, hands gripping the hair at my temples. I want to see her. The pantry door slams, plunging me into darkness. A moment later, a soft glow illuminates the space, and I see her standing there in front of me, smiling.

Please, let me see her again. I say to the house, looking at the ceiling in the living room. Just for a minute, just one more time, and then I'll bring you more food. A knock at the front door causes me to jump. Grumbling, I trudge over and open the door. As soon as I see the two people on the front porch, I know I'm in trouble. One is a man dressed in a gray suit with an oversized jacket to help obscure the gun he carries on one hip. The woman wears her pistol in a shoulder holster. I can see the butt of it poking out from under her windbreaker.

She also wears jeans, cowboy boots, and a button-up blouse. There is a significant age difference between the two, but they both have faraway looks in their eyes. The man is thick-bodied and a slightly darker shade of gray than his suit. The woman is slender in a powerful sinewy way. Mr. Rourke, the woman says. I nod, stepping out onto the porch and shutting the door behind me. The lockbox attached to the knob knocks lightly. This is Detective Linton, the woman continues.

And I'm Detective Pruitt. We would like to talk to you for a few minutes. She doesn't offer to shake my hand. I'm about to head to another showing, actually. Maybe another time? As soon as the words are out, I regret them. I should have asked what this was about. I haven't said 20 words, and I'm already looking guilty.

Because I am. We called your office, Detective Linton says. They said you don't have anything on the books until two. I make a show of checking my watch. I thought it was two. Yeah, I guess I do have a minute then. What is this about? Can we step inside?

Pruitt asks. Before I can answer, she reaches past me, opens the door, and moves inside. I stepped toward the porch stairs. Oh, this isn't my house. I'm just trying to sell it. It would be best if we could do it out here. Linton blocks the stairs to the yard. We're doing it in the house. I clear my throat.

Okay, that's fine. We head inside. Linton shuts the door behind us. As soon as it's closed, I feel the house tensing in anticipation. No, I think. Not again. Not again. It's not worth it. The memory of those giant teeth snapping through Mr. Greer's waist plays on repeat in my head. Then, his wife, dragging his body as she falls down, his intestines spilling out like a nest of snakes. We're still in the entryway when I say, we have to get out of this house.

I'll tell you whatever you want, just as soon as we get out of here. I turned toward the door, but Linton blocks the way. Why do you want us to leave? he asks. What are you hiding in here? I pinched the bridge of my nose and shut my eyes. No, it's... This house is haunted, okay?

I know it sounds crazy, but it's the truth. It seduced me. Not in that way. Not in the way you think. It gave me my daughter back. I held her. I smelled her hair and talked to her and heard her laugh. She was really here.

But then it took her away and said I could have her back if I just... If you just what? Pruitt asks, sympathetically. I let go of my nose and look at her. It said I had to feed it, so I did. I fed it twice. But the Greers, that wasn't my fault. I told them there was no cellar. I didn't know it would do that to them. The two detectives share a look. Linton is still behind me at the door. I turned so I can see them both. A shriek erupts from the cellar. It's a little girl's scream filled with pain. It's my daughter. I know it is. Did you hear that? I say, my eyes bouncing between the two

cops. They look at me like I'm crazy. It comes again, and I slam my hands over my ears. Please, we have to get out of here. I can't listen to her scream like that. You said something about a cellar, Linton says. Are the Greers down there? Is that where you left them? I lunge for the door, but Linton moves faster than I would have thought possible for someone his age. and size the next thing I know I'm on the floor cold metal cuffs securing my wrists behind my back where's the cellar mr. Rourke linton says kneeling on my back I shake my head we have to leave take a look around Linton tells his partner no please I'm buried them in the woods I'll show you I'll take you there now they don't buy it I hear

Pruitt's footsteps heading toward the kitchen it's in the pantry she calls back a moment later The door's already open. I'm going down. No! I shriek. Linton pushes my face to the hardwood floor. Shut up! I wait for Pruitt to scream, for the sounds of her bones snapping, her flesh being torn off. But it doesn't come. Instead, after a few minutes, she comes walking back into the living room, a revolted look on her face as she glares at me.

This guy is something else. You'll want to see this, she says. Bring him. Together, they pull me up and walk me into the kitchen. I plead the whole way. When I stiffen my legs to stop us, Linton punches me in the kidney. As we get into the cellar, I glimpse the Greer's. They're bound in duct tape, lying face up in pools of dried blood. They've each been stabbed repeatedly in the chest, neck, and face.

A kitchen knife is still sticking out of Mr. Greer's cheek. I shake my head, staring at them. Then something inside me shatters, and I dropped to my knees at the bottom of the stairs. I did it! I sob. I did it. I killed them. And two homeless people from downtown, I brought them here and killed them.

What a sad sack of shit, Linton says. Call forensics and get a team down here. Yeah, on it. In the corner of the room, Mr. Greer gasps as he sits up. What the fuck? Linton yells. Pruitt takes in a sharp breath. Mr. Greer cries.

Help me! You gotta help me. Fuck! He tried to kill us! Linton rushes over to him, bent over to keep from hitting his head on the low ceiling. Stay calm. We'll get you some help. Pruit, call an ambulance. The duct tape seems to fall away, as if it's little more than toilet paper when Mr. Greer brings a hand up and grips the knife, sticking out of his cheek. No! Linton says as he approaches the man, hunching beneath the low ceiling. Leave it in!

Greer pulls it out anyway and looks at it like he's never seen a knife before. Linton gets to his knees next to the man, his hands out, but not touching the guy as he looks him over. How are you not bleeding? he whispers. How are you not? Greer says, right before dragging the knife across Linton's throat. Pruitt shouts something incomprehensible as blood fountains out of her partner's neck. She drops her cell phone, the ambulance call now low in priority, and pulls her pistol from a shoulder holster. Meanwhile, Mrs. Greer sits up, grinning, her own duct tape falling away.

Linton collapses to the floor, gripping his throat, and gagging as he dies. Mr. Greer gets to his feet, knife still in hand, and marches toward us. Pruitt fires her pistol, hitting the man in the chest twice before I lurch at her, slamming into her side with my shoulder. She crashes hard into a support beam and falls to the floor, losing her weapon. With Mr. Greer closing in, and Mrs. Greer not far behind, Pruitt does the same. sensible thing and tries to run having recovered from my collision with her I back away hands still cuffed behind my back the detective turns toward the stairs and starts running but as she does the cellar stretches out around her turning into

an impossibly long haul with the treadmill-like floor that keeps her moving in place no matter how much she pumps her legs this transformation makes me nauseous everything seems to be stretched in every direction almost like looking through a fish-eye lens but a hundred times more disorienting The Greers don't have the same problem. They approach her at an easy, undead shuffle. As Pruitt turns to face them, she looks at me. The terrible regret is plain on her face.

It gives me a sick satisfaction as I think, I told you so. The cellar comes back to its normal dimensions, as Pruitt stops running and squares off against the Greers, hands up and ready to fight. The hard-packed dirt around her feet parts, as decaying hands jut out of the earth, gripping her by the ankles. She screams and looks down,

Just as the two homeless men I fed the house emerged to their waists, their rotting faces squirming with maggots as they grip her legs. The Greer's approach, and as they do, I see a giant mouth opening under Linton's body in the corner. The crunch of his bones creates a resonant undertone to Pruitt's sounds of distress as the mouth chews him. We're going to take our time with you, Mr. Greer says, grinning at Pruitt. I helped you, I shout.

I brought them here. Now give me my daughter back. You tried to warn them, Mr. Greer says, looking at me. No, it was all an act. I knew if I told them to leave the house, they would do the opposite. I mentioned the cellar on purpose, I swear. Now give me Alexis. I did what you said. Now give her to me.

The Greer's and a stunned Pruitt stare at me for a moment before they fade away. The cellar shifts sickeningly, morphing around me. I shut my eyes to lessen the nausea. When I open them again, my hands are free, and I'm standing in the house's entryway. Alexis stands there, looking up at me with her wide blue eyes, her strawberry blonde hair thick like it was before the chemo. She looks healthy and happy.

When she takes my hand, it feels warm and soft, just like I remember. She leads us to the door, which opens on its own. Hand in hand, we walk out of the house, down the porch and onto the sidewalk. My car is nowhere to be seen, but it doesn't matter. The afternoon sun is at our backs as we walk away from the horrible house. The world seems to shimmer around me for a moment, and I catch little glimpses of the cellar, as though through a sheer curtain blowing in the wind, I ignore them, focusing on Alexis. She looks up at me and smiles, only now she isn't the same. Her mouth is no longer hers.

It's the rotting mouth that chopped Mr. Greer in half that chewed Linton up. Then that flickers, and Alexis's mouth is her own again. I know the truth, but I don't care. I have my daughter back. That's all that matters. Realtor still missing after two detectives slain in house. Authorities are still searching for Leon Rourke. A realtor wanted for the murders of five people,

including two homicide detectives, John Linton and Rebecca Pruitt. Rorke's other alleged victims include Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel Greer, Dalton Richards and Peter White. All their bodies were found in the cellar of a house Leon Rourke was trying to sell. The two detectives were investigating the disappearance of Mr. and Mrs. Greer when they were reportedly lured to the cellar and killed with a number of different murder weapons that police are still searching for. What he did to those people?

Their bodies were so badly mutilated we could hardly tell who was who, said a police officer familiar with the case. This guy is sick, and we need to catch him now. Miss Olson, Rourke's ex-wife, insists that the suspect isn't capable of what the police are describing as a heinous killing spree. He doesn't have it in him, Miss Olson said. I mean, he was in a dark place after losing our daughter to cancer, but he would never do anything like this. Never. There has to be some kind of mistake. Police have released several images of Leon Rourke and are asking for tips from the public.

His vehicle was found at the crime scene, so we may have made. so we may have made off on foot, or a vehicle he bought under a different name. If you have information about this man's whereabouts, please call the police hotline at... Story 3. The house is hungry. At a glance, there's nothing unique about the abandoned, tracked house. It's a two-story block-like structure that stands shoulder to shoulder with other identical houses. Like the others, the windows have been broken out.

the door removed or smashed off its hinges during a long ago police raid. But as I stand across the near deserted street and the bright morning sunlight, and watch No. 408, it starts to feel different from its neighbors. It starts to feel ominous. Or maybe it's just my mind getting the better of me. According to a call I got an hour ago, it's the last place my brother was seen before disappearing off the face of the earth. Suddenly, I feel the urge to call the detective assigned to my brother's case, Clevenger.

Still staring at the house, I pull out my phone and find his name in my recent calls. The last time I talked to him was four days ago. There had been no leads, he had said during our last call. People like what? I snapped. Already frustrated with trying to get him on the phone. I had left him five messages and called him ten times before he finally picked up. He sighed. Not Dalton, I said.

My brother's disability checks get sent to me. He comes like clockwork. He wouldn't just disappear. His check has been here for three days. I've called all the hospitals, all the homeless shelters. I've called everyone. If he's dead, no one has found him. Hung up on him, knowing that what he left unsaid

was that my brother was likely on a bender or trying to score some dope somewhere I wasn't familiar with. But I knew better. Now, three days later, a phone call out of nowhere from a guy named Sly has brought me here. The memory of that last phone call with Clevenger brings a wave of anger. I shove my phone back into my pocket without calling him. As I head across the street, I steal myself against the feeling that the house is somehow waiting for me. I stop halfway, my head whipping up to look at one of the smashed out second floor windows.

In my peripheral vision, I thought I saw my brother appear there, only to be yanked down and out of view by a series of gruesome gray hands. Of course, there's nothing there. My imagination is getting to me. Just as I resume walking, an ear-ripping shriek erupts from inside the house, causing my whole body to tense up again, freezing me after only two steps. As soon as it came, the shriek ceased. As if it was on a radio, someone turned to. off, but it wasn't on a radio. I wonder if it was Dalton. It certainly sounded like a man, but I've never heard my brother scream before. Not like that. I continue, trudging up the cracked concrete walkway. I stop at the empty doorway, although it's slightly recessed in the middle of the house, there's enough sunlight to show me the entryway and the stairwell just beyond. Debris

litters the entryway. Dead leaves have been blown inside by the wind, but mostly it's trash and pieces of drywall. All of it covered in dust and dirt. Something familiar catches my eye amid the detritus. I lean forward to get a better look. It's a human tooth, root in awe. And judging by how little grime it has on it, it's a new addition. I hear footsteps inside the house and look up to see a skinny, white-haired black man stepping to the head of the stairs. From tip to toe, he fits the description of a homeless addict, just like my brother. He looks down at me, fear and hope, warring plainly on his face. Are you sly? I'm Derek, Dalton's brother. The man's shoulders relax, and hope seems to win as fear fades from his expression. Yeah, I'm sly. You look like Dalton.

I can see the resemblance. on in, we can talk. I dare not let hope ignite. This might all be some scheme to get some money from me, either by coercion or robbery. My brother has been an addict for long enough to teach me a few things the hard way. How do you know, Dalton? Despite his suggestion, I haven't yet stepped foot in the house. We were partners for a minute there, watched each other's backs, shared dope.

Till we drifted apart, like people do. Maybe he told you about me? Yeah, the name Sly rings a bell, I lie. So what did you want to tell me that you couldn't say over the phone? Come on, I'll show you. Without waiting, Sly turns and walks out of view. I glance back down at the tooth on the floor and then force myself to step inside. As I make my way up the filthy wooden stairs,

I see what looks like a long-dried blood stain on those closest to the bottom. shaking my head, I keep going. Sly reappears at the top of the stairs, waiting for me. When I reach the second floor, he heads to the front of the house, moving alongside the stairwell, where there had once been a railing, but where now there's nothing but a sheer drop down to the stairs. A window looks out onto the street at the end of the hall, the same window where I thought I saw Dalton pulled down by those corpse hands. There's a bedroom on either side. the doorways facing each other across the hallway. I'm surprised one of them actually has a door,

even though it has a massive hole in the middle of it, which has been taped over from the inside with a holy trash bag. Sly chooses this room, opening the door on a small square space with a single full-size mattress in one corner and trash everywhere. The mattress and the two threadbare blankets strewn across it are discolored with dirt and dried fluids, the origins of which,

I don't want to think of. I wait as sly looks around the room, grumbling to himself. He moves past me, leaving the room. I try to tamp down my growing frustration. I follow him across the hall to the other bedroom, but he comes right back out with an orange five-gallon bucket that smells like shit and piss. Flies buzz around the thing.

I give him a wide berth, ignoring whatever's sloshing inside, and putting my back to the window that looks out over the street. Once he's passed by with the bucket, I follow him into the first bedroom, just as he flips it over in one corner, splashing the meager but foul-smelling contents onto the floor. Was my brother staying here? I ask, watching Sly stand on the bucket and reach toward a hole in the ceiling. Yeah. Sly stands on his tiptoes on the bucket and digs around in the dark attic with his hand until he finds what he's looking for. He pulls out what looks like a toiletry bag.

eyes, suddenly alight with excitement. It's not like he had anywhere else to go. You wouldn't let him stay with you anymore, right? No, I say with a swelling of guilt. Not since he stole my TV and my laptop. Sly plops down on the mattress and opens the pouch, taking out a syringe and a spoon and a dirty ball of cotton. When he pulls out a baggie of what must be heroin, he looks up at me.

You're not going to gnarc on me, right? I shake my head. So, do you know where my brother is? Did you see Tubbs? Sly asks, focused on getting his fix ready. Whose Tubbs? He stays downstairs. Sly dumps some of the brown powder from his baggie into the bent and burnt spoon.

Dalton and him was tight for a minute. That's why I brought you here. To talk to Tubbs. He said he knows where Dalton is. I clench my jaw, realizing I'm getting the run around. I'm just surprised he hasn't asked me for money yet. Thanks, I manage as I leave the room. I decide to search upstairs since I'm already here.

I inspect the room where Sly got the bucket. The lingering smell of human waste drives me out quickly. There's nothing of interest there anyway. I move down the hall next to the stairwell. There are another two rooms at the back of the second floor. One is a bathroom, and the other is a third bedroom. In the bedroom, there's an ancient metal office chair in one corner underneath a hole in the ceiling. Given the positions of this room and the one sly is in,

I figure I could reach through this hole and stick my hand out the hole in the other room. Not that I have any intention of doing that. I look around the room for any sign my brother might have left, but nothing jumps out from the trash littering the floor. As I'm about to head downstairs, a thunderous thudding noise erupts from the attic. causing me to freeze and my heart to race. It seems to go in circles above my head until it stops near the hole in the ceiling.

I stare at the dark hole, heart, thudding so hard I feel it in my temples. Derry! A familiar voice, full of fear, whispers from the hole. Tallinn, I whisper back. Without thinking about it, I rush over to the chair and step onto it. The foam from the seat and back

has long since been stripped away, and the whole thing is loose, but I manage to balance on it. With my face about six inches away, I peer into the hole. My brother's face peers back at me. I've never seen Dalton look so utterly terrified. Jesus, I say. Are you okay?

He whips his head away, looking over a shoulder into the depths of the dark attic, as if he heard something behind him. When he whips his head back, I flinch away, winceing at the insanely scared look on his face. Get out of here, he whispers. Before I can tell him I'm not leaving without him, His eyes roll up into his head, and his mouth opens wide, half-rotten addict's teeth, seeming to stretch toward me as his lips pull back. A second later, the hole is filled with his mouth, but his lips are no longer visible.

His teeth are elongating, along with his gums, as they shoot out of the hole toward me. I jerk my head back, but I'm not fast enough, and the impossibly large jaws widened enough to clamp down on my face, forehead and chin. The first thing I notice when I jerk awake is the pain. It's at my hairline in the bottom of my jaw. The second thing I notice is the dark. The memory comes rushing back, and I scramble backward along the trash-strewn floor

until my back hits a wall. I can't make out anything but vague shapes. So I yank my phone out of my pocket and turn the flashlight on. I fixed the beam on the hole in the ceiling, but there's nothing there. Dalton's face doesn't float in the darkness. His messed up teeth aren't stretching insanely through the hole toward my face.

With my free hand, I reach up and touch my chin, feeling the gashes there, and the tacky dried blood. I do the same with my forehead. I must have been mugged by sly, I think. He hit me in the head, and I dreamed the whole thing with Dalton. When I arrived here, it was mid-morning. Now, it's dark. I've been unconscious for hours. Time to get the hell out of here.

After getting to my feet, I stepped to the room's door, gasping as my flashlight beam lands on sly. He stands across the hall, next to the bathroom door, staring toward the street-facing window between the two bedrooms. Sly, he sways on his feet, oblivious. As I take a step toward him into the doorway, his head jerks, swiveling unnaturally in my direction. A humorless smile rips across his face as if put there by the savage swipe of a blade. Then he starts running, but not toward me. He sprints down the hall toward the window he would staring at, but his eyes never leave my face. His head turns impossibly to keep his gaze on me, and in the moments before he jumps out the window, his head is facing almost directly backward.

Then he's flying out the window, breaking what little glass there is left in the frame. A knee-weakening crunch sounds from outside as he hits the ground. I stand looking at the window for a long moment before another sound snaps me out of it. It's a sliding sound, and it's coming from outside. I imagine Sly still alive, dragging himself along the ground. I rushed to the window, getting my mental ducks in a row so I can call 911 for him. But when I peer down and see Sly on the concrete walkway below, I realize he's not alive. But he is moving. His legs are hovering off the ground, and he's being pulled toward the house by some invisible force.

His head, lolling loosely, his skull split open and leaking. Thoughts of 911 go out the window, and my only one. The only concern is getting the hell out of this house. I spin around and run, nearly plunging right down into the stairwell. I just barely managed to run down its side, making a U-turn at the head of the stairs and rushing to the first floor. But when I get to the front door, Sly's corpse stands there, blocking the way, smashed head, hanging down his chest like a gruesome ornament.

Back here, the voice calls. It won't let you leave. Not now. Not unless you give it something. So I wouldn't try if I were you. All you'll get is hurt. Fuck this, I say before charging it's lies corpse. As I'm closing, his pulverized head creaks open like a mouth directly along the bloody

line where his skull cracked open. Sharp pieces of bone line both sides of the vertical mouth, like teeth. I try to stop, but my momentum is too great, so all I can do is jam my hands out to stop myself. I deliberately aim both of them away from the lolling head, but it jerks out on an impossibly elongated neck and catches my right thumb in its skull mouth, immediately snapping closed and severing my digit as I collide with the rest of its body. I bounce off him like he's an NFL lineman, using the momentum to pull away, screaming in pain as blood spurts from my wound. Not knowing what else to do, and too shocked to think it through, I run past the stairs and into

a gutted kitchen empty of all appliances. A man sits in the corner where a fridge once was, looking grimly at me. I told you you would get hurt. The man says. He slumped on the floor, his back to the grimy wall next to a set of destroyed cabinets. He's a large man, white, maybe late 50s. He wears nothing but a pair of badly stained sweatpants that were once gray. First aid kit, I say, gripping the nub of my thumb tightly. The man on the floor laughs once. It's all the answer I need. How do I get out of here? I shout, pain driving my panic. Help me get out. I told you. The man says in a tired voice. You have to give it something.

It's hungry. It's been sleeping for a long time. But now it's awake and it's hungry. So you have to feed it. Feed it what? You know, he says. Anger propelling me. I drop to my knees next to the man and reach out with my left hand,

grabbing him by the neck. I don't know. Tell me. In my rage, I pull him away from the wall just enough to see the skin of his back, stretching as if it has been stapled to the drywall. But that's not quite right, because the wall also seems to stretch out in strands like Taffy, joining itself to his skin. I stare in shock for a moment.

Blood spurts for my injury and onto the man's chest as I let him go. He's pulled back to the wall as if held there by bungee cords. Gripping my nub again to slow the blood flow, I sit back on my heels and look into the man's eyes. You know, he says again. You do that. I realize, I do know. I've known since I first laid eyes on the house. And just as I did then, I reach into my pocket to grab my phone.

Only this time, I have to do it with my left hand instead of my right. I've never had a high threshold for pain. So when I hear Detective Clevenger pull up outside, I can hardly believe it has only been 40 minutes since I called him. Clevenger said when he answered, his voice heavy with sleep and anger. I found someone who says he killed my. brother and buried his body. He says he'll confess, but only to you and only right now. Christ, I give him the address. There's a long pause. He says he'll run away if he sees a patrol

cart. He wants you. He wants the detective on the case. He knows you can pull strings with the DA. Get him a deal, but I don't know how long his high will last. You gotta get over here now. These words seem to originate outside of myself, as if the house was using me as a puppet, telling him the exact right things to get him here. While I was waiting, I ripped a piece of my shirt off and tried to bandage the wound, but I couldn't do it. The pain was too great. So I only wallowed in it, staring at the bloody nub, unable to think of anything else. Twice I tried to leave, once through a ground floor window, and once through the door. Sly's corpse was there both times, with his snapped neck and cracked skull, threatening to take more of my body parts. Pain stretched

time out, but now that Clevenger is here, I have hope. I can leave just as soon as I feed the house. I can get to a hospital, get some pain meds to stop this awful feeling. I stand at the top of the stairs, exactly where Sly stood earlier when I first arrived at the house. Clevenger's flashlight beam pierces the dark as he shines it through the front door. Up here, I say. Clevenger stops just outside the front door, a reluctant look on his face as he shines his light of it me. I squint and look away. What's in your hand? He asks, his free hand creeping toward his pistol. Sheepishly, I bring my injured hand from behind my back. I got hurt, I say, but I was afraid if I left, he would leave too. What the hell? Clevenger says, stepping across the threshold and coming up

the stairs to get a closer look. I'll call you an ambulance. I open my mouth to say no, but the house usurps me, using me like a puppet again. Thank you. He brings his radio up and calls the ambulance. When he's done, he says, I've got a first-eight kid in my car. I'll be right back. No, the bleeding is slowed.

I'll be okay for now. Just come talk to this guy. I need to know where my brother is buried. After hesitating, Clevenger nods. I lead him into the room next to the stairs. He shines the flashlight around. Is this a joke? Where is this guy?

I point at the hole in the ceiling, over the wobbly office chair. He's up there in the attic, says he won't come down until he talks to you. Says he has a razor blade, and he'll slice his wrists if we try to come up. Clevenger shines the light at the hole, but he looks at me, studying me closely. What's really going on here? Detective! A raspy voice says from the hole. I recognize it immediately.

It's Dalton's voice. Clevenger whips his head that way. clearly surprised to hear someone up there. He quickly regains his composure. Yes, I'm Detective Clevenger. Who are you? Can I see your badge? I want to be sure I'm talking to the right person

before I tell you what I did to Dalton. Signed, Clevenger takes his badge off his belt and holds it up toward the hole. I can't see with you shining the light in my eyes, the voice from the attic says. Clevenger shifts the light onto his badge. Closer. I still can't.

I can't see. Clevenger edges closer to the hole. Are you sure we can't do this in person? I need to look you in the face. Something shoots out of the hole in the ceiling. The detective doesn't have time to scream before it's upon him. I'm standing frozen at the same window slide jumped out of when I hear Clevenger's voice from behind me. Mr. Killian?

Once again, time has slowed for me since Clevenger was attacked by that thing in the attic. But this time, it hasn't been slowed by pain. been slowed by regret and dismay. I've been tricked so obviously, I find it impossible I didn't see it coming. It was the pain, I think. The house knew exactly how to manipulate me. I feel myself turning around to stare through the gloom at Clevenger, who stands at the head of the stairs, just outside the room where he was attacked. I feel myself smiling, grinning insanely. Then, through no power of my own, I throw myself head first into the deepest part of the stairwell. Dalton shouts the moment before my still grinning face crashes into the wooden stairs.

The pain is so great it seems to explode my spirit from my body. Instead of the darkness of oblivion, my ethereal being is assimilated, consumed by the house, tearing me into pieces with a psychic pain greater than anything I could have imagined as a physical being. Then I reform, changed, no longer really myself. But there's still somehow just enough of me left to experience the torment of what is happening to me. The torment that the house feeds on. I can feel my brother here, screaming, suffering alongside me, doomed to an eternity of torture. Sly is also here,

and I can now clearly see the sequence of events that brought me to the house. My brother resisted the urge to call me, to bring me here. Instead, he brought his friend and fellow addict. Sly. Sly called me, saying he knew something about Dalton's disappearance. I called Clevenger, and who will Clevenger call? I realize I already know. He called an ambulance. I'm vaguely aware, locked in my new prison, of Clevenger trying to leave the house and my body keeping him from doing so, injuring him like Sly's body injured me. Then I'm aware of the man in the kitchen talking to Clevenger, trying to convince him to bring more people to the house. Faintly, I hear the sounds of sirens. The ambulance is coming. Soon, the cycle will start.

all over again. The house is hungry.