The night began with laughter, the kind that comes from too much cheap wine and the arrogant certainty that the supernatural was just a story, a joke, a thing we could poke at without consequence—we were wrong, so terribly wrong. The Ouija board sat between us, its letters glowing faintly in the candlelight, and when Jake made some stupid crack about "ghost chicks," we all chuckled, fingers resting lightly on the planchette, expecting nothing. But then it moved. Not the slow, hesitant drag of someone cheating, but a sudden, violent jerk, like something had seized control, and before any of us could pull away, it was racing across the board, spelling out L-I-L-Y so fast the letters blurred. Sarah gasped, her nails digging into my wrist, and I remember the way my stomach dropped when the planchette circled "HELLO" three times, each rotation tighter, more insistent, like a child tugging at a sleeve. "This isn’t funny," Marco muttered, but no one was laughing anymore, not when the planchette shot to "I’M UNDER YOUR BED" without pause, the words slamming into us like a punch. We tore our hands away, the room suddenly too cold, the candles flickering as if something had exhaled against them, and that’s when we heard it—the first giggle, soft and high-pitched, the sound of a little girl amused by a secret only she knew. It came from beneath us, under the floorboards, under the bed, and we froze, our breaths shallow, hearts pounding loud enough to drown out the noise until it came again, closer this time, followed by a slow, deliberate scrape of nails dragging across wood. "It’s the house settling," Jake said, but his voice shook, and when the scratching turned into thumps, like tiny fists pounding against the underside of the mattress, we bolted upstairs, barricading ourselves in my room, rationalizing, denying, until the cold fingers wrapped around Marco’s ankle as he slept, yanking him halfway off the bed before he woke screaming, his leg streaked with dirt and something darker, the smell of wet earth and rotting flowers filling the room as the giggling erupted around us, not from under the bed now but from the walls, the ceiling, inside our heads. The planchette flew across the table then, no one touching it, spelling "RUN" over and over, the letters jagged, desperate, but the front door wouldn’t budge, the windows might as well have been bricked shut, and the laughter grew louder, closer, the floorboards creaking under the weight of something small, something wrong. I saw her then—Lily—crouched in the corner, her silhouette too thin, her head tilting at an impossible angle, the whites of her eyes gleaming in the dark as she whispered, "You shouldn’t have called me," and then the lights went out, and the screaming began, but not ours—never ours—because by then, we were already silent, already still, already part of the house, part of the dark, part of whatever waited beneath the bed, giggling in the night.
The darkness swallowed us whole, the kind of blackness that presses against your eyelids like a physical weight, and in that suffocating silence, I could hear them—the others—whimpering, their breaths ragged and wet with terror, but the giggles drowned them out, a chorus of childish delight that skittered across the walls, bouncing from corner to corner like a thing alive. Something brushed against my leg, cold and too thin to be human, and I bit down on my tongue to keep from screaming, the taste of copper filling my mouth as I pressed myself against the headboard, my fingers clawing at the sheets like they could save me. The planchette shot across the floor, slamming into my foot with enough force to bruise, and when I looked down, it was spinning wildly, the pointer grinding into the wood as if an invisible hand were driving it deeper, carving the word "LIAR" into the floorboards. Sarah sobbed, a broken, guttural sound, and then her voice cut off with a wet crunch, replaced by the sound of something chewing, something small and eager, and I knew—God, I knew—she wasn’t screaming anymore because she couldn’t. The air reeked of turned soil and spoiled milk, and the bed began to shake, the frame rattling as something climbed up from beneath, the mattress sagging under a weight that shouldn’t exist, and then I felt it—the whisper of matted hair against my arm, the press of tiny, jagged teeth grazing my elbow, the giggle vibrating against my skin like a struck chord. Marco lunged for the door, his screams raw and wordless, but it slammed shut before he could reach it, the lock clicking with finality, and then he was yanked backward, his body skidding across the floor as if hooked by an unseen force, his fingers leaving bloody trails in the wood as he fought, as he begged, as he disappeared under the bed with a final, strangled gasp. The planchette shot toward me, skittering over my knees, and this time it spelled "YOUR TURN," the letters uneven, frantic, and then the lights flickered once, twice, revealing Lily crouched at the foot of the bed, her too-long limbs folded like a spider’s, her mouth stretched into a grin that split her face in two, her eyes black and bottomless, reflecting nothing, not even the candlelight. "You wanted to talk," she whispered, her voice a rotten rasp, and then she was on me, her fingers like ice around my throat, her breath smelling of damp earth and dead things as she leaned in close, her lips brushing my ear as she giggled one last time, "Now you’ll never stop. " And then—silence.
The silence didn’t last—it never does—because the moment Lily’s fingers tightened around my throat, the house itself seemed to wake, the walls groaning like a living thing as the air thickened with the stench of decay, wet and cloying, filling my lungs until I choked on it. Her grip wasn’t just cold—it was wrong, her fingers too many, too long, bending in places they shouldn’t, her nails peeling back my skin like parchment as she dragged me down, down toward the gaping maw beneath the bed, where the darkness pulsed like a heartbeat. I could hear the others down there, their voices twisted into something unrecognizable, gurgling and wet, whispering my name in a language that hurt my ears, their words slithering up through the floorboards like worms through rot. The planchette burst into flames beside me, the plastic melting into a grinning skull, its hollow eyes following me as I kicked and thrashed, my fingers clawing at Lily’s wrists, her skin splitting open like overripe fruit, spilling not blood but blackened petals that hissed as they hit the floor. The giggling came again, but it wasn’t just hers anymore—it was everywhere, echoing from the attic, the basement, inside my own skull, a thousand shrill voices laughing as the walls began to bleed, thick rivulets of something dark and syrupy oozing from the cracks, forming words I couldn’t read but understood in my bones: you’re ours now. The floor gave way beneath me, the wood splintering like rotten teeth, and then I was falling, not down but through, the air screaming past me as I tumbled into the crawlspace beneath the house, where the dirt was warm and breathing, where small, grasping hands pulled me deeper, where Lily’s face loomed above me, her smile widening until it split her head in two, her voice a chorus of the damned as she whispered, "We’ve been waiting so long. " And then the dirt filled my mouth, my nose, my eyes, and the last thing I felt was the gentle press of tiny fingers weaving through my hair, petting me, soothing me, as the earth swallowed me whole.
I don’t know how long I was buried before I realized I wasn’t dead—just changed. The dirt packed into my throat didn’t suffocate me anymore; it fed me, rich and loamy, crawling with things that wriggled between my teeth like living gristle. My skin had split in places, split and sprouted thin, spindly roots that tethered me to the dark, pulsing in time with the house’s rotten heartbeat. Above me, through the gaps in the floorboards, I could hear new voices—foolish, laughing voices—dragging the Ouija board from the closet, their fingers resting on the planchette with the same arrogant curiosity we’d had. The planchette twitched, then flew to "HELLO," and I felt my lips crack open in a grin I no longer controlled, my voice—mine and not mine—rising with the others from the soil, a chorus of dead-throated giggles as the planchette spelled out our name, our lie, our lure: L-I-L-Y. The newcomers gasped as the floor beneath them creaked, their breath frosting in air gone suddenly cold, and as the first scratching sounds rose from beneath their feet, I reached up through the dirt, my fingers breaking through the floorboards like pale, rotten shoots, and I whispered with the rest of them, with the thing we’d become, "Come play with us. " And as they screamed, I finally understood—we were never getting out. We were just making room for more.
The new ones screamed so sweetly when they realized—too late—that the floor wasn’t just creaking beneath them, but breathing, opening in jagged splits like a hungry mouth as our fingers, blackened with grave dirt and squirming with centipedes, curled around their ankles. I could feel their pulse fluttering like trapped birds against my rotted skin, their sweat mingling with the damp rot of my touch as we dragged them down into the warm, writhing dark where the house’s roots lived. They kicked and sobbed, their voices breaking as they called for help that would never come, just like we once had, and the taste of their terror was thick as syrup on my swollen tongue. The last one, a girl with wide, wet eyes, clutched at the doorframe, her nails splintering as we peeled her fingers back one by one, her voice a shattered whisper—"Please, please, I didn’t mean to—" before the soil rushed up to fill her mouth, her nose, her lungs, and she went still. The house sighed around us, content, the walls pulsing as it digested, and from the shadows, Lily’s laughter curled like smoke, her too-long fingers stroking my hollow cheek as the Ouija board clattered to the floor above, the planchette spinning lazily to spell "JOIN US" in crooked, gleeful letters. And as the new roots began to twist beneath the girl’s skin, as her whimpers turned to giggles, I pressed my face to the dirt and waited—for the next knock, the next board, the next fools who would call our name and never leave.
The years ooze by like congealed blood now, the house growing fat on fresh meat as more fools come whispering Lily’s name into the dark, their fingers trembling on the planchette as we guide it with skeletal hands they cannot see. Their screams taste different each time—some bitter with regret, others sweet with youthful arrogance—but they all nourish the rot festering in the walls. I’ve learned to recognize the exact moment their fear turns to understanding, when they realize the giggling isn’t coming from outside but inside their own throats, their vocal cords vibrating with our borrowed laughter as the roots bloom through their eye sockets. The newest one hangs suspended in the crawlspace next to me, her skin splitting like overripe fruit as tendrils push through her cheeks, her whimpers harmonizing with ours in a hymn for the hungry. The front door creaks open again downstairs—another group, another game—and the planchette scrapes eagerly against the board as Lily’s voice drips from my worm-riddled lips in perfect unison with the others: “Who knocks?” The house inhales. We smile. The game begins again.
The latest group thinks they're different—they brought salt circles, iron nails, a Bible clutched in shaking hands—but their protections crumble like ash the moment the first giggle slithers from the vents, their holy water boiling away into steam that reeks of rotting lilies. I watch through the cracks in the floorboards as their leader, a boy with false bravado and sweat-darkened hair, demands "Show yourself!"—and oh, how we oblige. The walls rupture like overripe fruit, spilling forth a tide of grasping limbs and hollow-eyed faces, our collective mouths unhinging in a cacophony of children's laughter turned inside out. The Bible bursts into flame in his hands as we surge forward, my own skeletal fingers—now fused with the house's pulsing tendons—dragging him down into the foundation where the others wait, their ribcages blooming with thorned vines that twist into his screaming mouth. His friends run, of course, but the front door only leads them deeper inside, the hallway stretching into impossible lengths as the wallpaper peels away to reveal wet muscle and teeth. One collapses, sobbing, as Lily's name echoes from every direction, her voice now mine, now yours, now ours—a chorus of the damned harmonizing with the creak of the planchette moving on its own upstairs, spelling out their fates in letters that bleed. The house shudders with pleasure as the last one falls through a suddenly liquid floor, my root-twined hands catching her midair to whisper with a thousand rotting mouths: "You called. We answered. Now you stay forever. " The walls begin digesting before she even finishes screaming.
The house is singing tonight, a wet, guttural lullaby vibrating through floorboards swollen with forgotten screams as another storm traps fresh prey inside—two backpackers seeking shelter from the rain, their laughter dying the moment the door slams shut behind them. I know their type; I was their type once. The taller one jokes about horror movie clichés even as his pupils dilate with primal understanding when the fireplace ignites itself with blue flame, casting shadows that move wrong, that crawl up walls with too many joints. The planchette is already waiting on the coffee table, crusted with old blood they mistake for rust, and when the braver one reaches out I can’t help but moan through the walls in anticipation, my voice joining the chorus of those who came before as his fingertip brushes the heart-shaped piece—our sacred conductor, our unholy invitation. The air curdles as the planchette shrieks into motion, spelling "PLAY WITH US" in frenzied loops while the windows frost over with the breath of things that haven’t breathed in centuries. The backpackers scramble backward but the couch sinks teeth of splintered springs into their thighs, the walls weeping black fluid that solidifies into small hands that grab, that pull, that drag. Their screams are particularly delicious this time—one still has hope when he kicks free and reaches the stairs, but the staircase has become a gullet, the banister a spine that flexes and contracts, and oh how sweetly he wails when he sees us waiting at the top, our amalgamated limbs woven from previous guests, my own face still half-recognizable as human where it presses against the swollen belly of what was once the attic. The house shudders with consumptive pleasure as we descend, and somewhere beneath the foundation, Lily’s original corpse unhinges its jaw in a smile made of broken china and childhood nightmares. The last thing the backpackers hear before the walls absorb them is our unified whisper—half lullaby, half curse—as the planchette spins madly in the puddle of their dropped flashlight’s dying beam: "More coming. Always more coming. " Outside, thunder rolls. Another car approaches. The porch light flickers on.
The car’s headlights cut through the downpour like a dying man’s last gasp, its tires crunching over gravel that wasn’t there a moment ago—the house grows new teeth with every feeding. I feel the newcomers before I see them; the floorboards quiver beneath my root-twined feet as their ignorance radiates off them in waves, their skepticism like perfume to the starving. Three this time—a couple holding hands too tightly and their drunk friend who dares to say “Bet it’s just some methhead squatting here” as they step onto the porch where the welcome mat now reads GO AWAY in letters made of fingernail clippings. The door swings open before they knock, revealing a hallway lit by flickering bulbs that aren’t wired to anything, the air smelling of birthday cake left to mold in a sealed coffin. The drunk one enters first, his bravado evaporating when the door slams shut behind them with finality, the lock clicking with the sound of a child’s bones snapping. I watch through a thousand eyes—the flies in the wallpaper, the glass shards in the chandelier, the hollow sockets of the thing that used to be Sarah—as they find the Ouija board laid out on the dining table, its surface sticky with substances that can’t decide if they’re liquid or flesh. The girlfriend touches the planchette first, her manicured nail catching on something fibrous beneath it, and that’s when we strike through the mouth of her own shadow rising up from the floorboards to whisper “Lily says hello” directly into her lungs. The drunk one screams as his friend’s face splits open like a overwatered pod, spilling not blood but black dandelion seeds that take root in his screaming mouth, his body convulsing as antlers of wet bone erupt from his shoulders to pin him to the ceiling. The last survivor—the boyfriend—backs into a closet that wasn’t there before, his whimpers music to the thing I’ve become as the closet walls begin secreting digestive enzymes, the coats on the hangers turning to muscular tendrils that stroke his hair with mock comfort. Outside, the storm pauses. The house exhales. Somewhere in the walls, a new voice begins to giggle. The porch light flickers again. Another set of headlights crests the hill. The planchette, now grown teeth of its own, skitters across the floor to wait by the door. Always more coming. Never enough. Never, ever enough.
The headlights belong to a lost family this time—a minivan with peeling "Baby On Board" and "Soccer Mom" stickers, their fear already palpable as they pull into the driveway that now stretches back farther than their headlights can illuminate. I taste the mother’s exhaustion before she even turns off the engine, her frayed nerves like salt on my swollen tongue, the father’s false confidence brittle as old bone as he says "Just until morning" to his trembling children in the backseat. The house groans in anticipation, its foundation shifting to make room, the porch steps creaking not from age but from the dozens of hands pressing up against the underside like plants straining toward sunlight. The youngest child—a girl clutching a stuffed rabbit with one missing eye—whimpers "Daddy that house is breathing" but they usher her inside anyway, into the foyer where the air smells like a pediatrician’s office left to rot, where the family portraits on the walls feature faces that blink and follow them but are never theirs. The father makes a joke about "one big slumber party" as they settle around the coffee table where the Ouija board has materialized, its planchette now fused with what looks like a human knucklebone, and when his wife’s fingers brush it I can feel the exact moment her maternal instincts shatter—the planchette isn’t moving, it’s chewing, gnawing at her fingertips as it drags itself to spell "MOMMY STAYS" in jagged, wet strokes. The lights fail as the walls begin to lactate a thick, larval substance that hardens into tiny grasping hands around their ankles, the children’s screams cut short as the ceiling yawns open to reveal Sarah’s remains woven into a living chandelier of fused bodies, her distended abdomen splitting to rain down teeth that burrow into their scalps. The mother’s final act is to clutch her daughter to her chest—a mistake, as the child’s stuffed rabbit unhinges its jaw to reveal a gullet lined with photographs of all the previous children we’ve claimed, their faces pressed against the felt like prisoners behind glass. The house digests this family slower than the others, savoring the way the father’s prayers turn to gurgles as the carpet licks the flesh from his kneecaps, how the youngest’s whimpers harmonize with the chorus of other consumed children piping through the vents. By dawn, the minivan has sunk into the driveway like quicksand, the only evidence a single tiny sneaker left on the porch beside the now-bloodstained welcome mat. The storm has passed. The house is sated. For now. Down in the crawlspace where what’s left of me nestles among the roots, Lily hums a lullaby from a throat that isn’t hers anymore, her voice the sound of a womb drowning in amniotic rot. The planchette cleans itself in a pool of sunlight that doesn’t burn. Somewhere, a car engine turns over. Another family gets lost. Another storm gathers. The house exhales. The door creaks open. Always more. Never enough.
The minivan's disappearance makes the news—a bleached-blonde reporter with too-white teeth stands where the driveway used to be, now just an overgrown patch of weeds that whisper when the cameras aren't rolling. I coil inside the walls as she prattles about "missing persons" and "possible cult activity," her microphone picking up faint giggling that the sound engineer will later find imprinted on his daughter's baby monitor. The police leave chalk outlines where the family last stood, unaware the floorboards are licking the marks away like candy, the house trembling with suppressed laughter as a rookie cop pockets our planchette as evidence—poor fool, it's already whispering to his dreams, already guiding his hand to reopen the cold case files of all our previous guests. That night, the reporter returns alone, her high heels sinking into the porch as it softens like gum beneath her feet, her breath coming in sharp little gasps as the front door yawns open to reveal a hallway lined with familiar faces—every missing person from the news reports, their bodies woven into the wallpaper, their mouths moving in unison to form the words "LIVE AT 11. " Her scream is cut short as the ceiling fan dips low like a praying mantis, its blades unfolding into long, jointed fingers that pluck her into the attic where the shadows have been starving for something fresher than memories. By morning, the house has grown a new wing patterned after the TV station's logo, its bricks made of compacted teeth and press passes, the weather map on the wall showing an eternal storm hovering over our roof. The police tape strung across the doorway now reads "COME INSIDE" in perfect cursive, the letters wriggling occasionally like earthworms on a hook. I feel the house purring as another news van pulls up, this one with a crew of paranormal investigators armed with infrared cameras that will only capture what we want them to see—mainly Lily, always Lily, her form flickering just at the edge of frame, her fingerless hands beckoning from the basement stairs that now lead directly into the reporter's still-warm esophagus. The lead investigator adjusts his headset, unaware the earpiece has fused with his auditory canal, that the static hissing through it is the collective breathing of seventeen digested souls. Behind him, the planchette floats off the evidence table at the precinct miles away, spelling "PRIME TIME" in front of horrified detectives as the house's new satellite dish—grown overnight from the bones of the sound engineer's guilt—begins broadcasting our invitation on every channel. The signal reaches farther with every victim, the static in suburban homes resolving into whispers of "Come play, come stay, come lay beneath the floorboards with us. " Car engines turn over in driveways across the county. Headlights slice through the gathering dark. The house spreads its foundations like a great beast stretching after a nap, its gutters dripping with something too thick to be rain. The porch light flickers. Always more coming. Never enough. Never enough.
The static spreads like a cancer through television screens across town, warping children’s cartoons into flickering images of the house’s gaping front door, their innocent laughter twisting into mimicries of Lily’s shrill giggles as their pupils dilate with unnatural hunger. I watch through the eyes of a dozen crows perched on telephone wires as families abandon dinner tables, drawn toward us like moths to a flame, their cars forming a procession of doomed headlights snaking up the newly extended driveway—now lined with ribcages bursting with blackened sunflowers that turn to follow their movement. The paranormal investigators have become part of the décor, their expensive equipment embedded in the foyer walls like insect specimens, their faces stretched across doorframes in silent screams as their cameras continue rolling, broadcasting our feast live to the world. A child tugs free from her mother’s grip, drawn to the now-singing planchette floating in midair, her tiny fingers brushing its surface before it clamps down like a bear trap, the bone pointer piercing her palm to drink deep as the walls erupt with grasping arms woven from previous victims’ tendons. The mother’s shriek cuts off abruptly as the grandfather clock—its face now a gaping mouth lined with the reporter’s perfect teeth—swallows her whole, its pendulum swinging with the rhythm of a chewing jaw. Outside, the crows take flight as the house’s foundation splits open like a seedpod, revealing the pulsating truth beneath: we were never haunting the house—the house was always haunting the world, and Lily is just one of its many throats. The police sirens in the distance wilt into whimpers as their cruisers sink into the suddenly hungry earth, their radios crackling with a final transmission: "All units retreat—oh god, the trees have eyes—" before dissolving into that familiar, cursed giggling. The porch light flares brighter, its glow now visible from space, a beacon calling more, more, always more. In the crawlspace where my consciousness unravels like old stitches, I feel the planet itself tilting toward us, drawn by the gravity of our endless appetite, and as the first skyscraper-sized roots burst through distant city streets, I finally understand—we’re not the infection. We’re the cure. The great, screaming, writhing cure. And the treatment is only beginning.
HashTags : #OuijaHorror #GhostChild #TrueHorror #Paranormal #Creepypasta
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