The air in the dining room was thick, the conversation from moments before leaving an invisible weight on everyone. Alex shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his hands resting uneasily on the table. Across from him, his grandmother sat stiffly, her sharp eyes fixed on the flickering candle on the table.
Ethan had retreated into silence, his usual boundless energy replaced by an almost eerie stillness. The scrape of a fork on a plate was the only sound, but even that stopped as their grandmother finally spoke.
"Do you want to know why that house is cursed?" she asked, her voice low and steady.
Alex glanced at Ethan, then back to her. "Is this another one of your superstitions?"
She didn't smile, didn't scold him for his tone. Instead, she leaned forward, her frail hands clasping together on the table.
"It's not superstition," she said. "It's history. And you need to hear it."
Alex frowned but kept quiet.
"Long before the Reardons owned Blackwood House," she began, her voice low and deliberate, "the land it was built on belonged to another family, the Hawthornes. They were farmers, not wealthy by any means, simple folk really, but they cherished that land. It was their livelihood, their history, their home.
But Nathaniel Reardon, your great-great-grandfather, saw more than just fields and barns. He saw opportunity. Wealth. Power. The land wasn't worth much to the town, but Nathaniel believed there was something hidden beneath it or on it; something that could make him richer than anyone could imagine.
He approached the Hawthornes with an offer to buy the land. A generous offer, by all accounts. But they refused. They said the land wasn't for sale, not at any price. Nathaniel wasn't the kind of man that took kindly to being told no. He was a man who believed he could have anything if he wanted it badly enough.
So he tried to force them out. First, he spread rumors about the Hawthorne, accusing them of theft, of hoarding supplies, of anything that might turn the town against them. Then he sabotaged their crops, poisoned their livestock. Still, the Hawthornes held firm."
She took a deep breath as if bracing herself for her next words.
"And then… he set the fire."
The words hung in the air like smoke, chilling Alex to his bones. Ethan's hand tightened around his fork, his small knuckles turning white.
"It was supposed to be a simple fire," she continued. "A scare tactic, meant to destroy their barn and make them desperate enough to sell. But something went wrong. The fire spread faster than anyone anticipated, leaping from the barn to the house. The flames devoured everything in its path.
By the time the neighbors arrived, it was too late. The house was gone, burned to its foundations. Six of the Hawthornes died that night. Tfather, the mother, their youngest daughter, Margaret, and three cousins that lived with them. Only the eldest son, William, survived. He'd been out in the fields, tending to the livestock when he saw the fire.
He ran back, but there was nothing he could do. He stood in the ashes of his home, the bodies of his family barely recognizable, and he swore vengeance.
William was determined to make Nathaniel pay for what he'd done. But Nathaniel was careful. No one could prove he was behind the fire. He played the role of a concerned neighbor, even offering his sympathies at the funeral. But William knew the truth.
Over the next year, the feud between them escalated. William turned to sabotage, poisoning Nathaniel's wells, destroying his crops, stealing his livestock. But Nathaniel wasn't easily intimidated. He hired armed guards to patrol his land and made it clear that he wasn't one to be trifled with."
She paused, taking a drink of water to clear her parched throat before continuing.
"One night, William disappeared."
Alex frowned. "Disappeared? How?"
"No one knows," she said. "He left his home one evening and was never seen again. Some people said he ran away, that he'd finally realized he couldn't win. Others believed Nathaniel killed him. But there was no evidence, no witnesses. Nathaniel swore he had nothing to do with it.
After William went missing, there was no one to stop Nathaniel from possessing the land he had always wanted and that is exactly what he did. He built Blackwood House, an envy of the entire country and it seemed to everyone that there was finally peace."
"But that is when strange things began to happen."
Her voice dropped lower, forcing them to lean in.
"The land began to change. The crops withered, no matter how much Nathaniel worked the soil. The livestock grew sickly and weak. At night, the workers reported hearing whispers in the fields, voices that seemed to come from nowhere, calling out their names.
And then the deaths began.
Nathaniel's eldest son was the first. He went out hunting one morning and never came back. They found his body in the woods days later, twisted and broken, as if he'd fallen from a great height. But there were no trees tall enough nearby to explain the fall.
Then Nathaniel's wife began to see things. She swore she saw William's face in the windows at night, his eyes filled with fire. She begged Nathaniel to leave, but he refused. One morning, she was found hanging in the attic. Two more of his children followed soon after, dead from baffling situations."
Ethan whimpered softly. "Why didn't they just leave?"
"Because Nathaniel was stubborn," she said. "He didn't believe in curses. He thought it was all superstition, tricks of the mind. But by the time he realized the truth, it was too late."
Alex's chest tightened. "What happened to him?"
Her gaze hardened. "It was the night of one of his grand parties. Nathaniel loved to show off his wealth, even as the town whispered about his losses. That night, he invited everyone of importance, mayors, landowners, even priests.
At first, the night was perfect. Music, dancing, laughter. But as the evening wore on, Nathaniel grew restless. He kept looking over his shoulder, glancing at the windows as if expecting someone, always inquiring about the whereabouts of his remaining children. People noticed, but no one said anything.
Just before midnight, Nathaniel excused himself, saying he needed some air. He walked out the front door and never came back.
They found him the next morning on the front lawn. He was kneeling in the grass, his hands covered in blood that didn't appear to be his, his eyes wide open. His face… they said his face was twisted in terror, like he'd seen something no man should ever see. But there were no wounds, no signs of struggle.
His death was ruled as a heart attack. But the town knew better. They said it was the curse, that William's spirit had come back to finish what he started."
The room was silent. Even the fire seemed to burn quieter, its flames casting eerie shadows on the walls.
The sound of footsteps broke the tension, and Alex turned to see his father reenter the room. His expression was calmer now, though his jaw was still tight.
"Mom," he said, addressing his grandmother, "that's enough. Scaring them isn't going to help."
"They need to understand," she replied, her tone steady. "If Alex is going to that house, he needs to know what he's walking into."
"I'm not a kid," Alex said, his voice sharper than he intended. "I can handle it."
His father's eyes softened, though they were still shadowed with worry. "You think I haven't heard those stories? I grew up with them, Alex. I saw what that house did to Tobias. To my father. It's not just stories, it's real. And it'll chew you up and spit you out if you're not careful."
Alex's stomach churned, but he forced himself to hold his father's gaze. "I have to go. If I don't, I'll always wonder."
His father sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Then promise me you'll be careful. Promise me you'll leave if things start feeling… wrong."
Alex nodded, though he wasn't sure he believed his own agreement.
Ethan looked at Alex, his small voice trembling. "Are you scared?"
Alex opened his mouth to deny it, to brush it off with a joke. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, he looked into his brother's wide, frightened eyes and sighed.
"Yeah," he admitted quietly. "I am."
Ethan nodded, his grip on his fork relaxing slightly.
For Alex, the weight of his admission settled deep in his chest, cold and unrelenting.