David’s Final Recording
Alice sat alone at the small wooden table in her apartment, the recorder in her hands feeling heavier than it should. The room was silent except for the occasional creak of the old building settling and the steady ticking of the clock on the wall. The late hour painted her surroundings in shades of deep blue, the single desk lamp casting a pool of warm light that did little to dispel the oppressive darkness pressing against the windows.
Her thumb hovered over the play button. She had found the recorder tucked into one of David’s jackets, abandoned on the passenger seat of his car. It felt like a message in a bottle, tossed out to sea, waiting for someone to find it.
Taking a deep breath, Alice pressed the button, and her brother’s voice filled the room.
“Journal entry… November 15th,” David began, his tone calm and measured, the way it always was when he was focused on his work. “Ashford House is unlike anything I’ve encountered before. The symbols on its walls—they’re old, older than anything recorded in local history. At first glance, they appear decorative, but the more I study them, the more I feel they’re meant for… something else.”
Alice swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the device. David had always been meticulous, driven by a need to uncover the truth, no matter how unsettling it might be. But beneath his words, she could hear a faint edge to his voice, a subtle hesitation that set her nerves on edge.
“They glow faintly in the dark,” David continued. “Not like phosphorescence. It’s… alive. It reacts when I get close, almost like it’s watching me. Following my movements.”
A chill ran down Alice’s spine. She glanced at the windows, half-expecting to see a reflection of something that wasn’t there before.
The recording crackled briefly, and when David spoke again, the calm veneer was gone. “There’s… there’s something here. I can feel it. Watching. Waiting. Every step I take feels like I’m being drawn in deeper. The symbols—they’re not just markings. They’re warnings. Or maybe… invitations.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t think I’m alone.”
Alice’s heart pounded in her chest, and her breath came in shallow gasps. She leaned closer to the recorder, straining to catch every word.
The background noise grew louder now—a faint humming, like a swarm of insects, but layered with something else. It was subtle at first, a sound that teased the edge of perception, but it built steadily, growing more oppressive. David’s breathing quickened.
“I need to leave,” he said, his voice trembling. “But I can’t. It’s alive. It’s—”
The recording was cut off.
Alice sat frozen, the silence that followed as deafening as a scream. She played the last few seconds again, hoping to catch something she’d missed, but the end was the same.
Her hands shook as she placed the recorder on the table. The hum from the recording seemed to linger in her ears, a phantom echo that wouldn’t fade.
“It’s alive,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. The words felt heavy, unnatural, as though speaking them gave them power.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the windowpanes, and Alice jumped, her gaze snapping toward the sound. The faint outlines of tree branches swayed outside, casting long shadows across the walls. For a moment, she thought she saw movement—a fleeting shape in the corner of her vision.
She shook her head, forcing herself to focus. David wasn’t paranoid. He wasn’t imagining things. Something had terrified him, something real. And whatever it was, it had been waiting for him at Ashford House.
Now, she feared it might be waiting for her.
The Locals and Mrs. Palmer
The town of Ashford felt like a place lost to time. Alice wandered down its cobblestone streets, her footsteps echoing in the unnaturally quiet air. It wasn’t just the stillness that unnerved her; it was the way the townspeople seemed to shrink from her presence. Curtains twitched as she passed, faces disappearing into shadows before she could catch a glimpse of their features. Shops that should have been open were shuttered, their “Closed” signs swinging faintly in the breeze.
“Excuse me,” she called to a man sweeping the stoop of a small general store. He froze mid-sweep, his eyes darting to hers for a fleeting moment before he turned and slipped inside, shutting the door behind him.
Alice sighed, frustrated and unease gnawing at her. These people knew something—they had to. David’s notes mentioned several townsfolk by name, all of whom had some connection to Ashford House’s dark history. One name stood out: Mrs. Evelyn Palmer.
Turning a corner, Alice spotted her: a hunched woman in a wide-brimmed sun hat, pruning the roses in her front yard. The house was modest but well-kept, with ivy creeping up its brick walls and a small birdbath in the yard.
Alice approached cautiously, her sneakers crunching on the gravel path. “Mrs. Palmer?”
The woman paused, glancing up. Her sharp, gray eyes assessed Alice with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. “Who’s asking?”
Alice forced a polite smile. “I’m Alice. David Carter was my brother. I believe you might have spoken with him recently?”
At the mention of David’s name, Mrs. Palmer stiffened. Her lips thinned, and she gripped the garden shears a little tighter. “I might have,” she said curtly, returning her attention to the roses.
“I’m trying to understand what happened to him,” Alice pressed. “He was investigating Ashford House. His notes mentioned you.”
The older woman snipped a particularly thorny stem and dropped it into a basket. “That house is nothing but trouble,” she muttered. “Your brother should’ve stayed away.”
“But he didn’t,” Alice said, stepping closer. “And now he’s—” She stopped herself, the word gone lodging in her throat. “Please, Mrs. Palmer. I just want to know the truth.”
The woman hesitated, her weathered hands trembling ever so slightly as she set the shears aside. “Come inside,” she said finally. “But only for a moment.”
Inside Mrs. Palmer’s Home
Mrs. Palmer’s house was a maze of knickknacks and faded photographs. The scent of lavender mingled with the faint aroma of mothballs. She led Alice to a small kitchen where the wallpaper was peeling at the edges, and the table was cluttered with stacks of newspapers and unopened letters.
“Tea?” Mrs. Palmer asked, already filling a kettle with water.
Alice nodded, though her stomach churned with impatience. She sat at the table, her fingers brushing against the yellowed papers. Most of them bore headlines about Ashford House: “Mysterious Disappearances Continue”, “The Curse of Ashford House”, “Wealth Built on Blood?”
Mrs. Palmer returned with two cups of tea, settling into the chair opposite Alice. She sipped in silence for a moment, her gaze distant. Then, with a deep sigh, she began.
“Elias Ashford built that house over two hundred years ago,” she said, her voice low. “A merchant, wealthy beyond measure. They say his fortune came from a deal with something unnatural.”
Alice leaned forward, clutching her teacup. “What kind of deal?”
Mrs. Palmer shook her head. “No one knows. But people started disappearing not long after the house was built. Servants, travelers, even members of his own family. Always at night. Always without a trace.”
Alice’s heart thudded in her chest. “David mentioned symbols in the house. Did they have something to do with it?”
Mrs. Palmer’s hand trembled as she reached for her tea. “The symbols are part of it,” she said. “They’re not decorations. They’re… bindings. Warnings, maybe. Or invitations.” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “The house doesn’t just let anyone in. It chooses. And once it has you, it doesn’t let go.”
The Conversation Turns
“What does that mean?” Alice asked, her voice rising. “How does it ‘choose’?”
Mrs. Palmer’s expression darkened. “You’ve felt it, haven’t you? That pull. That itch in the back of your mind. The house knows you, Miss Carter. It knows you’re looking for answers, and it will give them to you—but not without a price.”
Alice’s mouth went dry. “What price?”
The old woman didn’t answer. Instead, she rose abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “That’s enough,” she said, her voice sharp. “I’ve already said too much.”
Alice stood as well, desperation clawing at her. “Please, Mrs. Palmer—”
“No!” the woman snapped, her eyes wild. “You need to leave this town. Leave before it’s too late.”
She shuffled to the front door, opening it wide. “Go,” she said, her voice trembling. “And don’t come back.”
Alice hesitated, but the fear in Mrs. Palmer’s eyes was palpable, almost contagious. Reluctantly, she stepped outside.
The door slammed shut behind her, and the sound of several locks clicking into place echoed in the still air.
The Unsettling Events at Home
The weight of Mrs. Palmer’s words lingered long after Alice left her house. The sun was setting by the time she returned to her apartment, painting the town in hues of orange and crimson. The shadows seemed to stretch longer than they should, curling around the corners of buildings like creeping tendrils.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Alice locked the door behind her and leaned against it, releasing a shaky breath. Her small apartment was exactly as she had left it: a stack of David’s notes on the coffee table, her laptop open on the desk, and her coat draped over the back of a chair. But the air felt heavier, as though the room itself had been waiting for her.
She tried to shake the feeling as she settled into the armchair by the window, flipping through David’s notes again. The symbols he had sketched were bizarre, almost hypnotic. Spirals that looped back on themselves, jagged lines that seemed to hum with energy even on the page, and intricate patterns that resembled eyes.
“Bindings… warnings… invitations,” she murmured, repeating Mrs. Palmer’s cryptic words.
But as the night wore on, exhaustion began to creep in. She closed her eyes for what felt like just a moment, but when she opened them, the room was dark.
The First Signs
It was the sound of the bedroom door creaking open that woke her.
Alice sat bolt upright, her heart pounding. The door had been firmly shut when she dozed off. She stared into the shadowy hallway, waiting for her eyes to adjust. The silence pressed against her ears, broken only by the faint rustling of the wind outside.
“It’s just the wind,” she whispered to herself, standing too close to the door.
But as she reached for the doorknob, a chill ran through her. The latch wasn’t loose. It was fully engaged.
She closed the door and tested it, pulling it back and forth to ensure it wouldn’t open on its own again. Satisfied, she returned to the living room.
That was when she noticed the mug.
It sat on the table beside her notes, perfectly upright. She stared at it, her mind racing. She was sure she had left it in the sink after dinner.
“Maybe I just forgot,” she muttered, though the words felt hollow even as she said them.
Things Escalate
The next day brought more unsettling discoveries. Alice’s notebook, which she had left open on her desk, was now on her bed. The pages were open to a sketch of one of the symbols—one she didn’t remember drawing. The lines were sharp, almost aggressive, as if someone had carved them into the paper with a pen.
Her keys, usually hanging on the hook by the door, were found in the bathroom sink. A book she’d been reading had vanished entirely, only to reappear on the floor of the hallway hours later.
By the third night, Alice was too frightened to sleep. She sat curled up on the couch, a flashlight in one hand and David’s recorder in the other. She replayed his last words over and over, searching for some hidden meaning.
“It’s alive,” his voice echoed, sending shivers down her spine every time.
Then she heard it.
A faint creaking sound, coming from the kitchen.
Her breath hitched as she slowly turned her head toward the noise. The kitchen light was off, but the faint glow of the streetlights outside illuminated the counters and cabinets. Nothing seemed out of place, but the sound came again—this time closer.
“Alice, you’re imagining things,” she whispered to herself, gripping the flashlight tighter.
But the sound of footsteps in the hallway proved her wrong.
The Open Door
It wasn’t until the fourth night that things reached a breaking point. Alice had fallen asleep on the couch again, the flashlight beside her and the recorder still clutched in her hand. She awoke to an icy breeze brushing against her skin.
Her eyes flew open, and she gasped. The front door was wide open.
She stumbled to her feet, her heart pounding in her chest. The cold air swirled through the apartment, carrying with it the faint smell of damp earth. She rushed to the door and peered outside, her breath fogging in the chilly night.
The street was empty, bathed in the pale glow of the moon. But as her gaze traveled to the house across the street, she froze.
A figure stood in the shadows, unmoving.
It was tall and indistinct, its form shifting as if it were made of smoke. Alice’s hands shook as she fumbled for the flashlight. She clicked it on, aiming the beam at the figure—but the light seemed to dissolve before reaching it, swallowed by the darkness.
“Who’s there?” she called, her voice trembling.
The figure didn’t respond. It simply stood there, watching.
Alice’s legs felt rooted to the ground, her mind racing with a thousand possibilities. Was this what David had seen? Had it followed her home?
Finally, the figure turned and disappeared into the night, its movements unnaturally smooth.
Alice slammed the door shut and locked it, her chest heaving. She pressed her back against the door, her mind spinning. Whatever was happening, it was no longer confined to Ashford House.
And it wasn’t going to stop.
Desperation and Resolve
Alice’s apartment was no longer a sanctuary. Every creak of the floorboards, every flicker of light, felt like a warning. The strange occurrences refused to relent, leaving her sleep-deprived and on edge. But amidst the chaos, her resolve only grew stronger.
She spread David’s notes across the coffee table, pairing them with pages from the library archives and articles she had printed during her search. The evidence pointed to one inescapable conclusion: Ashford House wasn’t just a mystery—it was a trap.
Connecting the Threads
David’s notes were meticulous, but they only told part of the story. He had written about the symbols on the walls, the faint humming noise, and the way the house seemed to shift when no one was looking. But he hadn’t uncovered why.
Alice turned to the documents she had gathered on her own. One article from the 1980s described a man named Richard Vaughn, a journalist who had vanished after breaking into the house to investigate the rumors. His last entry read: “There’s something wrong with the air here. It’s too still, too heavy. And those markings—they move when you’re not looking.”
Another article referenced an incident from the 1940s, when a group of teenagers dared each other to spend the night in the house. Only one survived, emerging at dawn with no memory of the night before and claw marks running down his arms. He never spoke of the experience again, but his family moved out of Ashford within the week.
Alice’s fingers trembled as she read another excerpt, this one from a historical record about Elias Ashford. It described a private ledger found among his belongings, detailing shipments of “unusual artifacts” from across the globe. One entry mentioned an object called The Binding Seal.
“What were you trying to contain?” Alice whispered to herself.
The final piece of the puzzle came from a map David had drawn. It was a crude floor plan of Ashford House, annotated with his observations. He had circled a small room on the second floor, labeling it: “The Source?”
Her eyes lingered on the word. If David had found something in that room, it might explain why he had grown so frantic in his final days.
Alice sat back, staring at the mess of papers and photos spread before her. It all pointed to one terrifying truth: whatever had been unleashed in Ashford House, it was still there.
And now it was coming for her.
A Phone Call for Help
The next morning, Alice made a desperate phone call to Officer Greg Martinez, an old friend of David’s. Greg had been one of the few people in the town who didn’t dismiss Alice outright when she first arrived.
“I need your help,” Alice said, her voice trembling.
“You sound like you haven’t slept in days,” Greg replied.
“I haven’t,” she admitted. “And I don’t have time to rest. I’m going to Ashford House.”
The line went silent for a moment. “Alice, that’s a bad idea.”
“David went there. He found something, Greg. Something that killed him. If I don’t figure out what it was, it’ll kill me too.”
Greg sighed heavily. “You don’t know what you’re walking into. That place has a way of… twisting people. I’ve seen it happen.”
“I don’t have a choice,” Alice said firmly. “But if something happens to me, I need you to know. I need someone to believe me.”
Greg hesitated, then said, “Fine. But I’m giving you 48 hours. If I don’t hear from you by then, I’m coming to get you.”
“Thank you,” Alice whispered, relief washing over her.
Preparing for the Journey
Alice spent the rest of the day gathering supplies: a flashlight, spare batteries, a notebook, and a small voice recorder. She packed water and snacks, though her stomach was too knotted with anxiety to think about food.
As she prepared, the strange occurrences in her apartment seemed to intensify. Shadows shifted in her peripheral vision, and objects she had just placed down would disappear and reappear elsewhere.
When night fell, she stood in her living room, staring at the recorder on the table. David’s last words played over and over in her mind: “It’s alive.”
She picked up the device and slipped it into her bag, along with his notes.
“I’m coming, David,” she whispered. “I’m going to finish what you started.”
The Road to Ashford House
The drive to Ashford House was short but felt agonizingly long. The road wound through dense woods, the trees casting long shadows in the moonlight. The farther she drove, the more isolated she felt.
When she finally arrived, the house loomed before her like a dark sentinel. Its silhouette was jagged against the night sky, the once-grand structure now overgrown with vines and shrouded in decay.
Alice parked her car at the edge of the overgrown driveway, her hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. The air was unnaturally still, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
She stepped out of the car, her flashlight cutting through the darkness. The crunch of gravel under her boots echoed unnaturally loud in the silence.
The front door of Ashford House stood slightly ajar, its wood warped and splintered. A faint hum seemed to emanate from within, so subtle she almost mistook it for the sound of her own heartbeat.
Her legs felt heavy as she climbed the steps to the porch. With each step, the pull she had felt since her brother’s disappearance grew stronger, as though the house was calling her.
Standing at the threshold, Alice hesitated. She glanced back at her car, at the dark woods beyond. She could still turn back, pretending she had never come here.
But then she thought of David’s voice, the fear in his words.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside.
Inside Ashford House
The air inside Ashford House was thick, oppressive, and cold. Alice’s breath hung in front of her like a ghostly vapor as she shone her flashlight across the entryway. The beam illuminated peeling wallpaper, a grand staircase covered in dust, and faded portraits that seemed to watch her as she moved.
Every creak of the floorboards under her boots sent chills down her spine. She paused to take in her surroundings, her fingers tightening around the flashlight. The house felt alive, as though it were breathing, waiting for her next move.
The Entryway
David’s notes had mentioned the symbols beginning near the entryway, and Alice spotted them almost immediately. Faint, almost invisible in the dim light, they were etched into the walls and floorboards. She crouched to examine one closely: a spiral surrounded by jagged lines, its edges glowing faintly as she passed her flashlight over it.
Her stomach twisted as she reached out to touch it, but the wood was cold and unyielding. The faint hum she had heard outside grew louder the longer she stared at the markings, vibrating in her chest like a second heartbeat.
“Bindings… warnings… invitations,” she murmured, remembering Mrs. Palmer’s words.
She pulled her notebook from her bag and copied the symbol quickly, her hands trembling.
The Living Room
The living room was next. The furniture was covered in sheets, and the air smelled of mildew and rot. A grand piano stood in one corner, its keys yellowed and cracked. David’s notes described hearing faint music in this room, but now it was silent.
As she moved further in, her flashlight beam landed on a mirror above the fireplace. It was cracked, the fractured glass reflecting her distorted image.
For a moment, she thought she saw movement behind her. She spun around, her flashlight darting across the room, but there was nothing there.
“Get it together, Alice,” she whispered to herself.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t alone.
The Kitchen
The kitchen was a stark contrast to the rest of the house. The tiles on the floor were cracked, and the cabinets hung open, their contents long gone. A rusted knife lay on the counter, its blade dulled with age.
Alice paused when she noticed another symbol, this one carved into the wooden table at the center of the room. It was different from the one in the entryway, its lines sharper and more angular.
She copied it into her notebook, her ears straining for any sound. The hum was louder here, a constant vibration that made her teeth ache.
As she turned to leave, she caught sight of something out of the corner of her eye: a shadow moving across the far wall.
“Hello?” she called, her voice trembling.
There was no answer.
The Upstairs Hallway
The staircase groaned under Alice’s weight as she ascended to the second floor. The banister was sticky with grime, and cobwebs clung to the corners of the ceiling.
The hallway stretched out before her, lined with closed doors. Each step she took echoed, the sound seeming to grow louder as she approached the first door.
She hesitated before opening it, her heart pounding in her chest. The room beyond was small, filled with decaying furniture and more symbols scrawled on the walls.
One of the symbols caught her eye—it was larger than the others, its lines jagged and chaotic. She stared at it for a moment, feeling a strange pull in her chest.
Then she heard the sound: a faint whisper, coming from the next room.
The Second Floor Room
David’s map had marked one room in particular: a small space on the second floor labeled “The Source?” Alice approached it with growing dread, her flashlight flickering as she reached for the doorknob.
The door swung open with a groan, revealing a room that seemed untouched by time. The walls were covered in symbols, their faint glow illuminating the space. In the center of the room was a wooden chair, its surface scratched and splintered.
On the floor beneath it lay a circle carved into the wood, its lines so intricate they made Alice’s eyes water to look at them. She knelt to examine it, her fingers brushing against the grooves.
The hum in the air grew louder, almost deafening, and she clapped her hands over her ears.
That was when she noticed the notebook.
It sat on the chair, its leather cover worn and cracked. She reached for it, her hands shaking.
David’s Final Words
The notebook was filled with David’s handwriting, frantic and barely legible. The entries detailed his final hours in the house:
"The symbols—they move when you’re not looking. I can hear them whispering."
"The hum—it’s alive. It’s coming from the circle. I think it’s a door."
"I feel it watching me. I can’t leave. It won’t let me."
The final entry made Alice’s blood run cold:
"I understand now. It’s not the house. It’s what’s inside it. And it’s awake."
The Shadow Returns
As Alice stood, clutching the notebook, she felt the temperature in the room drop. Her breath fogged the air, and the shadows on the walls began to twist and writhe.
The hum grew louder, vibrating through her bones, and the symbols on the walls began to glow brighter.
“Who’s there?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the noise.
The shadows converged in the corner of the room, forming a shape—a figure.
It was the same one she had seen outside her apartment. Smoke-like and shifting, its form was indistinct, but its presence was undeniable.
Alice stumbled back, her flashlight trembling in her grip. The figure stepped forward, its movements unnaturally smooth, and the hum seemed to pulse in time with its steps.
She turned and ran, the notebook clutched tightly to her chest.