Vanishing Presence
The air was festive, filled with laughter and chatter that echoed strangely against the rows of old houses. And there, at the far end, stood the Blackwell House. That old beast of a building seemed to hold its breath, as though waiting.
Sam and her friends arrived in high spirits, giddy in their costumes, and ready for a night of thrills. The house loomed large and dark, its crooked windows flickering with candlelight, casting a faint, eerie glow that should have felt inviting on such a night but didnโt. Yet, ignoring the prickle on the backs of their necks, they rang the doorbell.
Inside, they found the mansion alive with revelers dressed in dark cloaks, masks, and garish makeup. The rooms were decorated with cobwebs, skeletal hands poking out of candy bowls, and flickering orange lights. But the Blackwell House didnโt need fake cobwebs or staged shadows; it had its own.
The party started like any otherโa mix of laughter, music, and chatter. The guests marveled at the grand staircase draped in heavy velvet, the cracked mirrors, and the faded portraits on the walls. But even in the midst of the crowd, Sam couldnโt shake the feeling of being watched, of something lurking just beyond her sight. She brushed it off, laughing along with her friends as they took selfies, holding out their phones to catch the eerie background of the old house.
But in every photo, there was something wrong.
At first, it was just a trick of the light, a shadow in the far corners. But as Sam flipped through each new picture, the shadow seemed to grow, inching closer, taking on a formโa figure, hooded and silent, drifting closer with every snap of the camera. When she looked up, nothing. Just the laughter, the dim lights, and her friendsโ oblivious faces. And yet, in the photos, the figure seemed to watch them with an intensity that made her skin crawl.
Unease settled over the room, subtle at first, like a draft slipping through an open window. Guests were glancing over their shoulders, fidgeting, muttering about odd things they were seeing in the dim reflections of the mirrors. One by one, people began to notice their own photos. They, too, saw the hooded figure standing at the edges, half-obscured in shadow, as though creeping into their world from some unseen place.
โGreat costume, whoever you are,โ one guest muttered nervously, trying to play it off. But the words held no weight. They fell flat, swallowed by the silence growing between breaths.
Sam felt the air thicken, the scent of something burningโa faint, acrid odor, like the remnants of a long-extinguished fire. She followed it to a room at the end of the hall, where the wallpaper was stained yellow and peeling, the air damp and cold. A grand portrait hung crookedly on the far wall, depicting a lively scene from decades pastโa party, guests in extravagant attire, each face turned toward the painter with eager smiles. But there, at the back of the painted crowd, stood the hooded figure, shrouded in shadow, face obscured.
A chill ran down Samโs spine as she moved closer. From the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she saw one of the figures in the painting turn to look at her, its eyes dull and lifeless, its mouth twisted in a frozen scream. She backed away, stumbling out of the room and rejoining the party, hoping to shake off the dread.
But the mood had shifted. The festive atmosphere had dissolved into a growing sense of dread. People were whispering, glancing over their shoulders, avoiding mirrors. Some made excuses to leave, though they could hardly say why. Samโs friends clung close to her, uneasy, but no one wanted to admit the creeping terror sinking into their bones.
Sam checked her phone once more. The figure was there again, but this time it was in the center of the photo, looking directly at her with an unsettling clarity. She stared, heart pounding, as she saw something elseโa hand, reaching out of the frame, its pale, skeletal fingers stretching toward her, growing closer with each photo she took.
She looked up, and for the first time, there it was, standing in the center of the room, unmistakable. A black cloak hung over its form, hood concealing its face, but she felt its eyes on her. She could sense it waiting, watching. It was no longer confined to the photos.
The guests fell silent as they, too, saw the figure standing amongst them. One by one, they backed away, but there was nowhere to run. The doors were shut, the windows sealed tight. The figure stepped forward, and with each step, the lights dimmed, the music warped into a slow, ominous dirge, and the walls seemed to close in.
โWelcome, honored guests,โ came a voice that was neither here nor there, a voice that echoed from every corner of the room. The figure lifted a bony hand, and the smell of smoke thickened, filling the room until the air was unbreathable.
The guests scrambled, desperate to escape, but each door they tried led them back to the room, back to the figure waiting patiently, as though feeding off their fear.
One by one, they vanished. They were pulled into the shadows, slipping into the walls, their screams muffled by the thick air, faces disappearing from mirrors, leaving only faint impressions, ghostly smears where they had once stood.
By morning, the house was silent once again, empty as if it had never been touched by laughter. The neighbors found it abandoned, the party long ended, with no trace of the guests or the laughter that had once filled the air.
But as the sunlight crept into the empty house, it caught the old portrait on the wall, illuminating new faces within the painted crowd. Faces frozen in horror, eyes wide with fear, mouths twisted in silent screams, and at the back, that same hooded figure, watchingโฆ waiting for the next Halloween night to claim its due.