Hello dear ones and welcome to today's story.
A story of friends who tell each other ghost stories at an abandoned cottage.
So as always making yourself comfortable in the space.
Just taking some moments to arrive here now.
Maybe taking some deeper breaths.
Or having a big old stretch.
Whilst you snuggle down and get comfortable.
Ready for the story.
And when you're ready,
We shall begin.
The rain began just as they reached the cottage.
Thick heavy sheets of it slashed through the trees.
Making the narrow dirt road behind them disappear into mist and darkness.
Owen turned the old iron key in the lock,
Shoving against the wood.
It groaned open,
Revealing the dim,
Musty interior of Blackwood Cottage.
A place that had stood abandoned for years,
If the townspeople were to be believed.
Lightning flashed,
Illuminating the dust swirling in the air.
This is so,
So creepy,
Maisie muttered,
Stepping inside and pulling the hood of her jacket down.
That is kind of the point,
Jake said,
Grinning as he kicked the door shut behind him.
He flicked on his flashlight,
Sweeping it across the walls.
Come on,
Look at this place.
Big stone fireplace,
Cobwebs in the corners.
Furniture that looks like it has been here for centuries.
It's a perfect setting for a horror movie.
You mean a murder scene?
Lydia mumbled,
Eyeing the deep claw marks etched into one of the wooden beams.
She wasn't convinced they came from an animal.
Owen rolled his eyes,
Shouldering his backpack and stepping deeper inside.
It's just an old hunting cottage,
People probably scratched stuff into the walls for fun.
He knelt by the fireplace and touched the stone.
It's still dry,
If we start a fire now,
It'll warm up fast.
Maisie pulled off her jacket and peered around at the dusty furniture.
Okay,
But if there are like,
Ghost,
Deer or whatever roaming around here,
I'm out.
Jake laughed.
Oh,
There are definitely ghosts here.
Lydia shot him a glare.
Don't start,
Jake.
But it's too late,
He said,
Waggling his eyebrows.
You guys do know the legend of Blackwood Cottage,
Right?
Lightning flashed again,
Followed almost instantly by a deep boom of thunder.
The wind howled through the trees,
Shaking the window panes.
And that was when the lights went out.
Maisie yelped.
Okay,
Nope,
She scrambled backward,
Nearly tripping over her own feet.
Lydia fumbled for her phone,
But when she pressed the power button,
The screen stayed black.
My battery's dead,
She muttered.
No service either,
Maisie said,
Holding up her phone.
We are officially alone out here.
Jake,
Of course,
Was delighted.
Even better.
That means we have no choice but to entertain ourselves the old-fashioned way.
He pulled a flashlight from his backpack and flickered it on.
Then he grinned.
Who's up for some ghost stories?
The wind rattled the windows,
And no one spoke for a moment.
Then Maisie sighed and flopped onto a dusty couch.
Fine,
But if I have nightmares,
I'm blaming you.
Owen stacked some logs in the fireplace and struck a match.
Within minutes,
The fire crackled to life.
Casting eerie,
Shifting shadows on the walls.
The flickering glow made the old,
Mounted deer heads look alive,
Their glass eyes reflecting the light.
They sat in a rough circle,
The storm raging on outside.
As Jake leaned forward,
Eyes glinting.
I'll go first,
He said.
Jake took a dramatic pause,
Letting the fire crackle before he began.
So,
There's this story about the guy who used to live here,
Elias Blackwood.
He was some kind of hermit,
Always muttering to himself,
Always writing in his little black book.
People say he heard things,
Voices in the walls,
Whispers in the wind,
And he wrote down everything they said.
A gust of wind shrieked through the chimney,
Making Lydia shudder.
One night,
During a storm just like this one,
Blackwood vanished.
The door was locked from the inside.
His coat was still hanging by the fire.
And his book,
His precious book,
Was found open on the table.
And the last thing he wrote?
Jake paused for effect,
Then whispered.
He is coming.
He is here.
He is.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the windows.
Maisie jumped.
Okay,
Stop,
Jake smirked.
But the weirdest part?
The townspeople sealed up the cottage after that.
No one was supposed to stay here again.
But the lock,
It was broken from the inside.
Lydia swallowed hard.
That's,
That's not real,
Right?
Jake only smiled.
Outside,
The rain hammered against the roof.
All right,
Owen said,
Clearing his throat.
That was decent,
But I've got a better one.
There's this old road near my house,
Owen began.
No one drives on it anymore,
Because at the end of it,
There's a graveyard,
And buried in that graveyard is a girl.
No name on the stone,
Just a date from over a hundred years ago.
But people say that if you were driving down that road on a misty night,
You might see her.
A girl in white,
Standing at the edge of the trees,
Holding a lantern.
She never speaks,
Never moves.
She just watches.
The fire crackled.
And if you see her,
You have to keep driving.
Because if you stop,
If you even blink,
When you look back,
She'll be closer.
Lydia shuddered.
Maisie pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders.
What happens if she reaches you?
Owen hesitated.
No one knows.
Then,
Just as Lydia opened her mouth to speak,
Something tapped against the window.
Everyone froze.
Maisie's breath caught in her throat.
Lydia reached for Owen's arm.
Jake turned,
Slowly lifting the flashlight.
Another tap.
Maisie whispered,
Did you hear that?
A shadow shifted just beyond the glass.
For a long moment,
No one breathed.
Then,
A sudden bang against the door made them all scream.
Jake scrambled to his feet.
Nope,
Nope.
Owen grabbed the fire poker,
Heart pounding.
Lydia stared at the door,
Pulse hammering.
Who would be out there in this storm?
Silence.
Then the door creaked open slightly,
The wind pushing it inward.
They all stared.
Beyond the threshold,
The night stretched into endless darkness.
No one was there.
Just the rain.
Just the empty woods.
Maisie whispered,
Someone is messing with us.
Jake swallowed.
Yeah,
Yeah.
Totally.
It's just a prank.
The wind howled through the trees,
Making the entire house creak.
Owen shut the door firmly,
Locking it this time.
We are not opening that door again tonight,
He muttered.
They sat closer to the fire after that.
Their voices quieter.
The stories softer.
No one checked the window again.
And though none of them spoke about it,
They all heard it.
Long after the fire burned low.
Long after they lay awake in their sleeping bags.
Trying to convince themselves that it was just the wind.
A faint whisper.
Coming from somewhere inside the walls.
