Welcome to our new 🍂Fall Fiction Fill-In Series🍂 where we invite you to finish the endings of our stories and poems. So, come join us and have fun because…
It’s your turn to….
Write. Imagine. Continue….
Today’s story is:
Would You Stay?
Written by Saneatra Polk
I can’t believe I’m taking a five-hour drive into the dead silence of southern Illinois by myself. Born and raised on the South Side of Chicago, I’m a city girl at heart. But the city didn’t love me back. I am hanging onto my bare necessities by a thread. I overdrafted my account just to buy the gas that got me here. Miles away from the only home I’ve ever known, I am preparing to start my life over in a place that feels entirely off the grid.
I know most horror stories start at an old house in the middle of the woods, but I keep telling myself this house can’t be haunted—otherwise, my dad wouldn’t have survived here for the past twenty years. He walked out on Mom and me when I was six. I barely have any memories of him. Then, out of nowhere, his letter arrived. He said he needs my help, and in exchange, I can stay at his place rent-free. Rent-free echoes in my mind like a lifeline, masking the warning signs. I packed my small sedan with my last remaining essentials and drove toward the unknown.
The moment I turn off the interstate, the world shifts. Winding roads swallow me into a dense canopy of bleeding fall foliage. If it wasn’t for cabins peeking through the thick tree line, I would think I am the last person alive. The silence out here isn’t peaceful; it’s heavy.
Then the paved road ends. I turn onto a jagged dirt path that bleeds deeper into the shadows, finally stopping in front of a gray stone mini-mansion. It looms over the modest forest like a monument to a secret. It has a gaping basement and a dark attic, its architecture completely out of place. There is no turning back. Literally. My gas light is amber, and my pockets are empty.
As I walk up the stairs, the heavy front door clicks and swings open on its own. It reveals nothing but a pitch-black void. No lights are on inside.
Before I can even look for a light switch, a voice cuts through the dark from somewhere upstairs.
“My Miracle… is that you?”
A chill hits my spine. I frown at the sound of my name coming out of his mouth. If I’m a miracle, why did he discard me twenty years ago? “Yeah… it’s me.”
Deep in the upper shadows, a floorboard groans. “Everything you need—kitchen, food, bathroom, and bedroom—is downstairs. Make yourself at home. Only one condition.”
My heart beats fast against my ribs. I still don’t know what to call this stranger. “Yes… sir?”
“No matter what, do not come upstairs until I tell you to.”
The rule hangs in the air, cold and absolute. How can I help a man I’m not allowed to look at? “OK,” I whisper into the dark.
I spend the rest of the daylight hours unpacking by the dim glow of my phone flashlight. The fridge is stocked with fresh food, but a mounting panic makes me crave liquor instead. I tear through the cabinets—seasonings, canned goods, heavy pots—but find zero alcohol. My unease grows as I realize every single window in the house is completely blacked out, sealed tight with heavy, dark covers. The rustic decor feels less like a cabin and more like a bunker. With no TV to distract me, I lie awake in the suffocating dark, staring at the ceiling until my eyes finally cross with exhaustion.
Thud.
I bolt upright. The sound is wet, heavy, and echoing right against the glass.
Thud. Thud.
My breath hitches. I slide out of bed, the tile floor freezing against my bare feet. I creep toward the nearest window, my hand trembling as I pinch the edge of the heavy black curtain. I peel it back just an inch and force my eyes to adjust to the moonlight.
A pile of gray feathers and twisted necks rests on the sill. Dead birds. Dozens of them.
My stomach turns. How could this many birds blindly throw themselves against a window?
I didn’t sleep this night, or the next three nights. The house feels like an active trap, and I haven’t seen a glimpse of my father since the front door opened. By the fourth night, the dread turns into a volatile frustration. The rhythmic, wet thuds against the house are driving me insane. Determined to see what is happening, I march to the window and press my face near the glass, waiting for the impact.
What I see makes my blood run entirely cold.
The birds aren’t flying into the glass. They are raining down from the sky above the roofline—already stiff, lifeless, and dropping like stones.
Panic snaps my restraint. I sprint to the grand staircase, looking up into the pitch-black second floor. “Dad! Is everything okay up there? What is happening?!”
“It’s okay,” his voice drifts down, entirely too calm, too hollow. “Go back to bed, dear.”
Thud. Thud. Two more corpses strike the roof.
Driven by pure survival instinct, I place my foot on the bottom step. The old wood lets out a sharp, loud creak.
Upstairs, the quiet stops instantly. The air turns cold.
“Miracle,” his voice is no longer calm. It is a low, dangerous growl that vibrates through the floorboards. “Do not come up here.”
I stand frozen on the step, my heart beating in my throat. Every instinct tells me to sprint to my car and drain the last drops of my gas tank to get away. But as I stare into the blackness at the top of the stairs, a terrifying realization locks me in place: I don’t know what my dad is hiding, but I am already inside the house with it.
Hey Loves, now it’s your turn…
Write. Imagine. Continue….
the story!
To watch the video short for this week’s story, please click on the link below.
