The House in Valleyview
On the edge of a quiet town, there was a house everyone avoided. It sat beneath a twisted sycamore tree, its windows black and hollow, as if the house itself were watching.
Long ago, a family lived there—the Morrows. Neighbors said they were happy, but one winter night in 1983, the entire household vanished. The breakfast table was still set. The fireplace still burned. Their beds were empty, but the sheets were warm, as though the family had only just slipped out.
No one ever found them.
Years passed. Teenagers dared each other to spend a night inside. Few lasted more than an hour. They spoke of whispers curling through the halls, and footsteps following them up the stairs—though no one was there.
One boy swore he saw a woman in the kitchen window. She wore a white dress, her hair long and dripping wet. When he blinked, she was gone, but the window glass was smeared with condensation from the inside, as if someone had pressed their face against it.
Another visitor claimed that upstairs, the air grew heavy—so thick it hurt to breathe. He found a child’s toy rocking horse, swaying gently on its own. Then he heard laughter, sharp and brittle, echoing in the dark. He ran, leaving the door wide open behind him.
To this day, no one stays past midnight. The locals say if you do, you’ll hear the Morrows calling your name—softly at first, then closer, closer, until you feel a cold hand brush against your shoulder in the dark.
And if you turn around… you’ll never come back out.
