The House on Wicker Hill

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Title: The House on Wicker Hill

They say some houses are alive.<script type="text/javascript">

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Not metaphorically. Not in the "oh it has character" sort of way. Truly alive—breathing, watching, waiting.

At the edge of Wicker Hill, buried in fog and forgetfulness, sat one such house. Locals only whispered about it, if at all. It had no official address. Maps blurred where it should’ve been. GPS signals failed near it. And yet, every decade or so, someone would find it.

And someone wouldn’t return.

This is what happened to Harper Blake.

She was a journalist chasing a fading urban legend. The usual story—missing people, unexplained lights, a crooked staircase that led nowhere and everywhere. She called it folklore.

She arrived late October, just as the air took on that damp, grave-cold chill. Her journal entries were upbeat at first. Curious. Analytical. But then… things changed.

The last entry in her notebook, dated October 28th, was found near the ruins:<script type="text/javascript">

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<script type="text/javascript"> atOptions = { 'key' : '06d35a2e6a1ef9c0e737d97800b86a9d', 'format' : 'iframe', 'height' : 60, 'width' : 468, 'params' : {} }; </script> 

<script type="text/javascript" src="//www.highperformanceformat.com/06d35a2e6a1ef9c0e737d97800b86a9d/invoke.js"></script><script type="text/javascript"> atOptions = { 'key' : '06d35a2e6a1ef9c0e737d97800b86a9d', 'format' : 'iframe', 'height' : 60, 'width' : 468, 'params' : {} }; </script> <script type="text/javascript" src="//www.highperformanceformat.com/06d35a2e6a1ef9c0e737d97800b86a9d/invoke.js"></script>"It moves. The house rearranges itself at night. I woke up and the window faced a hallway instead of the garden. I heard breathing from the walls. There’s something in the attic—it whispers in reverse. I recorded it. Playback is worse."

Locals who dared hike to the spot claimed the ruins weren’t always ruins. Some nights, when the fog hangs like a shroud and the crickets go silent, the house reappears—whole, waiting, hungry.

No one's seen Harper since.
Only her voice—sometimes—on static-choked radio frequencies.
Always whispering the same thing:

“Don’t open the red door.”

But of course…
There was never a red door.
Not until you look again.<script type="text/javascript">

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