It wasn't just the door that the police couldn't open.
The entire house seemed… wrong. The officers described a suffocating stillness, as if the air itself refused to move. Their radios crackled with static inside the property, and no matter how bright the day outside, shadows filled the rooms like ink.
"Structural quirks," the lead investigator muttered, but his tone was thin.
Weeks passed, and rumors began to swirl about the house. Neighbors whispered about strange sounds at night—moans and cries that carried on the wind. Delivery drivers refused to approach the property, leaving packages at the end of the driveway.
But it was the children who noticed first.
"They watch us," one child told her parents after walking past the house.
"Who does?"
"The people in the windows."
But the house was empty.
Months later, the bank sent a crew to assess the property. Three workers entered the house; only two came back out.
The survivor, a man named Eric, refused to speak at first, his eyes glassy and distant. When pressed, all he could say was:
"It's not a house. It's hungry."
Eric disappeared two days later. His car was found abandoned a mile away, the keys still in the ignition.
By then, the house was infamous. Paranormal enthusiasts descended upon the neighborhood, determined to get inside. Most were too frightened to approach. Those who did left pale and shaking, refusing to discuss what they'd seen.
One, a self-proclaimed ghost hunter named Nathan, uploaded a video online. It went viral.
The footage started normally, with Nathan filming the exterior of the house and narrating its history.
"This is the infamous 'Hollow House,'" he said, his voice tinged with nervous excitement. "Locals claim it's haunted. People have disappeared here. Let's see if there's any truth to it."
As Nathan approached, the audio distorted, the wind picking up in unnatural bursts. He turned the camera toward the windows, zooming in on a second-story room.
There was a face staring back at him.
"Nah, that's gotta be a reflection," Nathan muttered, but his voice wavered.
He entered the house, the camera shaking as he panned across the darkened interior. The footage caught fleeting glimpses of something moving just out of frame—shadows twisting unnaturally, objects shifting without cause.
"I'm getting out of here," Nathan said, but the camera kept rolling as he turned toward the door.
It was gone.
The video ended abruptly, and Nathan's account went silent. His family filed a missing person's report, but no leads were ever found.
Years passed, but the house remained.
It decayed further, its roof sagging, its walls streaked with mildew. The front door hung ajar, swinging gently in a breeze no one could feel.
Despite its condition, no one dared to demolish it. Crews who arrived to do so reported unexplainable equipment failures—engines dying, tools breaking, and one crane operator who swore he saw hands reaching up from the ground to pull the machine down.
The property was condemned, fenced off, and forgotten.
Decades later, the house was rediscovered by accident.
A group of hikers, lost in the woods, stumbled upon the property. The building loomed over them, its dark windows like empty eyes. One of the hikers, a young woman named Jess, felt an inexplicable pull toward the house.
"Don't," her friends begged. "This place isn't right."
But Jess approached anyway, her footsteps crunching on the overgrown path.
The door was still open, and inside, she saw the faint glow of a red light, pulsing softly like a heartbeat.
Her friends called after her, but she didn't respond. She stepped through the threshold, the door creaking as it began to close.
Jess turned back only once, her face pale and her eyes wide with terror.
"Run," she mouthed before the door slammed shut.
She was never seen again.