Chapter 460

The old house stood silhouetted against the perpetual twilight of the Norwegian autumn, its darkened windows like vacant eyes staring out at the fjord. It had been empty for years, a grim landmark in the small coastal village.

Eighteen souls had met their ends within its walls, each death more gruesome and inexplicable than the last. Yet, the Jensens, a family of four, saw only a bargain – a large home with an ocean view for an unbelievable price.

They moved in during the late summer, the days growing short, the nights growing cold. The father, Lars, was a stoic man, a fisherman hardened by years at sea. The mother, Astrid, was a dreamer, her spirit never quite grounded to the harsh reality of their lives.

Their two children, ten-year-old Elina, and eight-year-old Soren, were children with bright eyes and soft faces.

The locals had warned them, of course, spoken in low tones, of the house's dark history. But Lars scoffed, calling it old wives' tales. He was a man of logic, not superstition.

Astrid, however, felt a prickling unease from the moment they stepped inside. The air was stale, thick with a scent she couldn't quite place, a mix of damp wood and something metallic.

"It smells old, Papa," Elina said, her small voice echoing in the cavernous hallway.

"It is old," Lars replied, his tone dismissive. "It needs a good airing out. We will do that later, for now let us unpack."

The first few weeks passed with a veneer of normalcy. The Jensens worked to make the house their own, painting the walls a cheerful yellow, and filling the rooms with their belongings.

Soren discovered a small wooden toy soldier under the floorboards in his bedroom, a painted, chipped warrior. He kept it with him always.

But as the days shortened and the nights grew longer, a subtle shift occurred. It started with small things: a misplaced object, the sound of footsteps on the stairs when no one was there, and the feeling of being watched even when alone.

Astrid began experiencing vivid nightmares, filled with grotesque faces and cold hands. She woke gasping, the sheets soaked in sweat.

"Lars, something is wrong," Astrid stated, her voice tight with concern. "I keep hearing things, seeing things. It does not feel right here."

Lars placed a hand on her shoulder, his expression unchanged. "It is the old house, Astrid. You are letting the stories get to you. It is just your imagination."

Elina started complaining about her room being colder than the rest of the house. The temperature in there would drop dramatically at night, the air biting at her skin even under layers of blankets.

She spoke of shadows moving on the walls, shapes forming and then vanishing in the corners of the room. Soren just clutched his wooden soldier and remained silent, his eyes wide, and a dark purple hue under them.

One evening, as they ate dinner, the lights went out. The family was plunged into darkness, a heavy silence following. Lars found a lantern and lit it, the flame casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. They could hear a slow, rhythmic scratching from upstairs, a sound like claws dragging across the wood.

"Lars, please!" Astrid pleaded, her voice trembling.

"We just need to check it out, see what it is," Lars replied, grabbing a heavy wrench from the tool drawer.

He went upstairs, the wrench held high, Astrid following closely behind, while the children remained frozen at the table. The scratching had stopped by the time they reached the landing. The house seemed to hold its breath as they moved through the upstairs rooms, but nothing was out of place. Lars tried to convince himself it was just mice, but a cold dread was creeping into his heart.

The following night, Soren woke up screaming. He claimed that the toy soldier had moved on its own, its painted eyes staring at him with a malevolent intensity. He refused to touch it, his face pale with fear.

Lars took the soldier, examining it under the lamplight. There was nothing unusual about it, he concluded. He left it on the mantel in the living room, thinking Soren had just had a bad dream.

The next morning, the soldier was back in Soren's room, tucked under his pillow. Astrid's terror grew, her waking hours filled with a persistent dread that clung to her like a shroud.

She tried to convince Lars to leave, but he was stubborn, unwilling to admit that he had made a mistake. He kept saying, "We will just stay longer, Astrid. It is all just in your head."

The scratching sounds returned, now louder, more insistent. Astrid had started to see figures in the periphery of her vision, fleeting glimpses of shadowy shapes that vanished when she turned her head.

The house was closing in on them, the unseen presence growing stronger, more tangible. Lars started to have trouble sleeping, his face taking on a drawn look, his eyes becoming sunken. The house seemed to be taking something from each of them.

One night, Elina did not come to the breakfast table. The family called for her, searching the house, but they could not find her. Her bed was empty, the sheets still neatly tucked in, as if she had never been there.

"Where is she?!" Astrid sobbed.

"I do not know," Lars said, trying to keep his tone steady. "We will find her. She cannot have gone far."

They looked everywhere, inside, outside, under beds, in closets, everywhere the young girl could fit but, she was nowhere to be seen. Then, Astrid discovered a dark, wet stain on the floor of Elina's room, a stain that did not resemble water or any cleaning product.

The fear that had been simmering in her chest boiled over into pure panic. She knew, with a chilling certainty, that they were not alone in the house, and whatever was with them had taken her daughter.

Soren had stopped talking altogether. He would just sit in the corner, staring at his hands, his eyes hollow, and a perpetual shiver racked his small body. His wooden soldier was always clutched tight in his fist. Astrid could see that he wasn't the same, that something had changed inside him.

"Lars, we have to leave. Right now. We have to!" she screamed, desperation filling her voice.

Lars refused. He said they needed to find Elina and that they couldn't just leave without her. He grabbed Astrid, his grip tighter than it had ever been, his eyes full of something Astrid had never seen before: a dark, hollow look. It scared her more than anything.

The house seemed to revel in their terror. The scratching became a constant presence, a maddening symphony of scraping nails against wood, echoing from the walls, the floors, the very ceilings. The air grew colder, a bone-chilling cold that seeped into their marrow.

Astrid saw more, the shadowy figures now more detailed, their faces grotesque, their eyes empty and cruel. She saw them reaching for her in the dark, their touch cold as death. She screamed but her screams seemed to be trapped in the house's walls.

One night, Lars woke up to an empty bed. Astrid was gone. He went to the living room, and saw her standing by the fireplace, facing away from him. Her form was stiff, her head tilted at an unnatural angle. He tried to touch her, but her skin was like ice.

When she turned to face him, her eyes were black, her mouth twisted into a horrifying smile. It was not Astrid anymore, it was something else.

Lars screamed, his voice echoing through the empty house. He backed away from the creature, his mind reeling, trying to understand what he was seeing. He went to find Soren and saw that his eyes had turned completely black, staring right past him at the wall.

He had lost his boy too. The wooden soldier dropped to the floor and rolled away into the hallway.

Lars started running, he had to get out of the house, he had to escape whatever this was. He ran to the front door and tried to open it, but the handle wouldn't move. It was as if the door had locked itself. He tried the windows, but they were sealed shut, impossible to break. He was trapped. The house had him now.

He heard the sound of dragging coming from the hallway, the creature that looked like Astrid was getting closer. He turned and ran into the kitchen and tried to pry the window open with a knife. The knife would not budge, it just slipped off the window frame. He was not going to get out. He turned around to face the creature, his face blank, his eyes empty and lifeless.

He let out a scream, not a sound of terror, but one of defeat, a heartbreaking wail of a man who had lost everything. The creature approached him, her icy hand reaching out, touching his face.

As her touch began to spread through his body, his consciousness began to fail, and then he felt it, his very soul ripped from his body, consumed by the house, added to the collection of tormented souls already trapped within its walls.

A year later, the house stood empty once more, the windows dark, silent witnesses to the family that vanished without a trace. The village spoke in hushed tones of the Jensens, their story adding another layer to the house's grim legend.

No one dared to approach it, for they knew the house was not merely a building, but a hungry entity that would never be satisfied. The house waited, patiently, for its next victims, the scratching growing louder in the emptiness, a promise of horrors yet to come.