The Haunting of Hollowood Street

Thirteen years in this house, and nothing ever felt out of place. Life was steady, mundane, and comfortably normal. That is, until my partner moved in a year ago. Then, things began to change. Little by little, the house at the end of Hollowood Street revealed something hidden in its very walls—a presence that would slowly unravel everything I believed.

It started with small things. My partner, a woman who had grown up surrounded by the paranormal, mentioned hearing scratching on the walls. At first, I laughed it off, dismissing it as the old bones of the house settling. She would hear faint whispers, doors creaking as if something unseen was brushing against them. I shook my head, a skeptic through and through. But that’s the thing about skepticism—it crumbles quickly when fear tightens its grip.

One cold night, about a month ago, the house made its presence known to me. I was alone in the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator my only companion. The dim light barely illuminated the hallway leading out of the kitchen, but I saw her—if only for a fraction of a second. A figure. A little girl in a flowing dress, standing in the hallway, staring straight ahead. I blinked, and she was gone.

It sounds cliché. It was cliché. That’s why I brushed it off. Maybe it was the drinks I had earlier—just tipsy, not drunk, I told myself. I didn’t even mention it to my partner for a few days, convinced I had imagined the whole thing. But when I finally told her, I could see the color drain from her face. Without hearing my description, she quietly admitted she had seen the exact same figure—standing in the corner of our bedroom.

The figure became a shadow in our lives. We would catch her just out of sight, a flicker in the corner of our vision, disappearing before we could turn our heads. The sightings grew more frequent, and so did something far worse: the sounds.

Late at night, when the world was asleep, we would hear the scratching—like fingernails dragging slowly across the walls. It would echo through the halls, growing louder, more insistent, as if whatever it was wanted to be noticed. Banging on doors would shake us from our sleep, only for us to find nothing but silence when we opened them. The presence was growing bolder, and I could feel its icy grip tightening around us.

My partner, who hadn't suffered from panic attacks in years, began waking in the early hours of the morning in a cold sweat, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. The figure would stand at the foot of our bed, watching her, fading into the shadows as I fumbled for the light. She would scream, clutching her chest as if something was suffocating her. I would hold her close, feeling helpless, the air in the room thick with something wrong.

But the most terrifying experience came just days ago.

It was early evening. My partner and I were sitting in our bedroom, chatting, while my mother was in the next room, her door slightly ajar. Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream tore through the house—my mother's voice, shrill with agony, calling my name. My heart stopped. I ran into her room, expecting the worst. But there she was, sitting calmly on her bed, reading.

"I didn't scream," she said, her face pale with confusion. "Are you sure you heard it?"

I knew what I heard. It was clear as day, and my partner heard it too. But how could it be? My mother hadn't said a word. The fear gnawed at me, threatening to consume my sanity. I didn't know what to believe anymore.

Then the food started disappearing. I would see groceries I had just bought vanish overnight. Bread, milk, entire meals—gone, as if the house itself was devouring them. There was no explanation. We had no pests, no intruders. But the missing food was real, tangible proof that something was taking more than just our peace of mind.

The house—our home—had become something else. A place where the walls whispered, where shadows moved, where the line between reality and nightmare blurred. The weight of the presence grew heavier with each passing day, pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe. I could feel it watching, waiting.

We tried to fight it. My partner, familiar with the strange and supernatural, bought incense and selenite crystals to ward off the malevolent force. She remained calm, but I could see the cracks forming. The shadows were following her now, tugging at her mind, pulling her deeper into their grasp.

But nothing stopped it.

And now, I write this, unsure of what’s real anymore. I feel a constant chill in the air, a presence just beyond the veil of the ordinary. It's not just in the house; it's in me. I can sense it. Something is here, something that’s not leaving.

The ouija board I used all those years ago—the one I thought had left no mark—maybe it opened a door I can’t close. Or maybe my partner brought something with her, a specter from her past, something dark that had followed her here.

I don’t know how long we can live like this. The fear is suffocating, crawling under my skin, sinking its claws into every corner of our lives. The figure watches, always just out of sight, always waiting. And I know, deep down, that it’s only a matter of time before it steps fully into our world.

I just hope we’re ready when it does.