WHISPERS AT HALLOW CREEK

“Where were you last night?” Detective Jones turned the flickering overhead light towards Jeremy Parker, who fidgeted in his chair.

“Who wants to know?” Jeremy asked, his leg bounced, and his fingers tapped on the table.

“The family of missing Daniel Reed wants to know. Now answer the question,” Detective Jones’s tone deepened.

Jeremy shifted uncomfortably, “I went for a walk… that’s all.”

“Is this you in this picture?” Detective Jones slid a picture of Jeremy climbing out of the second-story window of the notorious haunted Hallow Creek home.

Jeremy grabbed the picture. He was sweating uncontrollably, his leg bounced faster.

“That is not me! You know how it is, Detective, people look like each other all the time. I didn’t do anything!”

Detective Jones took the picture and glanced at it once more. “You know, Jeremy, I don’t believe in coincidences. Especially when we have a witness who saw you running away from the house moments after Daniel was last seen. He entered that house and never came back out.”

“I didn’t do anything, Detective! I didn’t hurt anyone! I didn’t want to get hurt too, so I—”

Detective Jones leaned forward, “You didn’t want to get hurt, too? What do you mean?”

“That place… It’s not right, Detective. Something got Daniel while I was in there. I saw things... awful things. I had to leave before it was too late.”

“Jeremy, what did you see?”

Jeremy shook his head, “I can’t do this. I didn’t hurt anyone, Detective. I got out of there before I ended up like Daniel! Can I please leave?”

Detective Jones took a deep breath and sighed, “Yes, we’re done for now.”

Jeremy stood, stiff and pale, and darted for the door. Jones sat there and stared at the empty chair. Jeremy’s words ran on repeat in his head, I didn’t want to get hurt, too.

Hours passed, and Jones decided there would be no sleep tonight. He drove to the Hallow Creek home and sat in his car for what felt like hours. If Jeremy was telling the truth, there was something sinister going on in that house. Jones gripped the steering wheel one last time, then he stepped out into the cold, misty night. The air hung heavy with the smell of wet leaves and rot. His boots sank into the damp mud on the path to the house. The stairs to the porch were sunken in, and the wood groaned with each of Jones’s steps.

Jones paused at the door, the frame was swollen from moisture, and the wood was soft to the touch. The door hung slightly open. With a gentle push, the door opened, releasing a stench of rot and decay. Jones stepped inside, his flashlight cutting through the dark. Dust filled the room. There was silence, except for a steady drip of water deeper within.

The living room was to Jones’s right. The wallpaper had peeled away and exposed the rotted wood underneath. A couch lay overturned, and its cushions were ripped apart. The fireplace sat cold and blackened, completely covered in ash. Picture frames lined the mantel; each covered in a layer of dust. The photos showed a family—a husband, a wife, and two sons.

Jones’s flashlight caught a glimpse of something sticking out of the ashes of the fireplace. A scrap of paper, the edges curled and blackened. He crouched and reached in.

The paper was thin and yellow, but the ink was still legible. Across the top ran the title: "Hallow Creek Tragedy: Local Man Murders Family, Vanishes." A grainy photograph filled the page. Jones froze. It was the same family from the mantel. Beneath the photo, the caption read, Clayton Oswald and family, 1972.

The article described a stormy night fifty years ago. Neighbors heard screams, and the police later found the bodies of every Oswald family member except for Clayton Oswald, the father. The house had stood empty ever since.

Jones folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. The air felt thicker now, and an unsettling weight filled the room.

Then, a sharp creak sounded behind him.

Jones turned, and there was nothing there. Complete stillness. Another creak came from the staircase near the entrance. He moved toward the sound and noticed muddy footprints glistening from his flashlight. The footprints trailed up the stairs into the darkness above. Jones gripped the railing and began to climb—each step louder than the next. The footprints grew fainter near the top, and the mud thinned across the landing.

At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched in both directions. Water leaked from the ceiling and dripped into a shallow puddle across the sunken floorboards. The room at the very end of the hallway had a blue glow under the door. Jones raised his gun and moved toward the light. Each step stirred a faint echo beneath the floorboards.

Jones pressed on the door with his shoulder. The door opened, and the blue light filled the room. A phone rested on the floor. The phone’s cracked screen showed a picture of the missing Daniel Reed. Jones crouched down to retrieve the phone, and the door behind him clicked shut. Jones held his breath. His flashlight trembled across the walls. Something shifted in the far corner. Something tall, human-like, but wrong in how it moved.

Jones lifted his gun. “Police!”

The light caught a glimpse of the figure—gray skin, empty eyes, and the face of the man from the newspaper article.

Clayton Oswald.

Jones fired once, but the figure didn’t fall. The bullet hit the wall and sunk into it.

The door behind Jones flew open on its own, and a cold wind rushed past him. It carried a faint smell of cigarette smoke and whiskey.

Footsteps echoed from down the hallway.

Jones’s flashlight caught a glimpse of the figure as it stood still in the hallway. Then suddenly, it charged toward him.

Jones stumbled backward, and his flashlight fell to the floor. The figure pinned him against the wall. Its form flickered in and out of existence. Jones’s throat tightened.

Then, a sharp tug yanked him away. The figure vanished.

“Detective! We’ve got to get out of here!” Jeremy pulled Jones into the hallway.

They ran down the stairs and out into the night until they made it to Detective Jones’s car at the edge of the road. They leaned against the car and tried to catch their breath.

The house made a deep, hollow sound, almost like it was taking a deep breath in.

Jones and Jeremy froze. Their eyes met, but neither said a word.

Jones started his engine. His headlights cut through the cold air, and the gravel crunched beneath his tires.

The Hallow Creek home stood still as they drove away—quiet, patient, waiting.

“Now that you believe me, I… I think I’m ready to talk,” Jeremy shakily muttered.

“Alright kid, we will head back to the station.”

Jeremy interrupted

“—Wait… before we go, could we stop at my motel room first? I just need a few minutes.”

Jones pulls into the old Hallow Creek motel. The faded neon sign flickered above the narrow dirt lot. Jones pulled up to room 103, and Jeremy scurried out of the car. Scrolling on his phone, Jones noticed that minutes had passed, and Jeremy had not returned. He must be freaking out in there. Jones sighed, threw his phone on the passenger seat, and got out to check on Jeremy.

As Jones reached the door, he knocked once. Silence. He waited for a moment and knocked again. Still, nothing. He gripped the knob and gave it a slow twist. The door opened slowly. It groaned on its hinges as if it was barely hanging on.

“Jeremy? You okay, kid?” Jones called out softly, his voice echoed in the stillness. He stepped inside and realized Jeremy was not there. As Jones scanned the room, he took in a chaotic mess—DNA printouts scattered across the desk and photos of Clayton Oswald and yellow newspaper clippings from the ‘70s murders pinned to the wall.

His gaze moved to the mirror above the desk, where frantic scribbles in Jeremy’s handwriting stood out against the smudged glass.

“Kill someone in the house.”

“I need to finish this.”

“MAKE HIM STOP.”

Each word screamed with desperation, a frantic cry for help.

Jones backed up, “What the hell—”

WHACK!

Darkness.

Jones’s vision was blurred, and his patrol lights lit the world around him. His head throbbed as he woke up. Groggy, he realized he’d been struck. Jeremy was driving.

Jeremy’s face streaked with tears, his voice unsteady,

“I’m sorry, Detective. I didn’t want any of this!”

Jones tried to sit up. His head was spinning.

Jeremy gripped the steering wheel.

“My dad… he won’t stop. Not until I finish this. Not until I kill someone in that house.”

Jones’s stomach drops. “Jeremy—please, you don’t need to do this.”

“You don’t understand…” Jeremy’s voice cracked. “My mom… she had a one-night stand in the 90s. She never knew my dad. My dad’s voice—Clayton’s voice—it’s been in my head my whole life.”

Jeremy swallowed hard as he fought back tears.

“Clayton knew he was dying, so he slept with my mom to pass on his legacy. He wanted me to be just like him. He’s been haunting me, telling me to kill someone in that house. I need to do it to make his voice stop.”

Jeremy’s hands trembled on the wheel.

“I was out for a walk when I heard Daniel Reed’s friends dare him to go into my dad’s house. I snuck in to kill Daniel. But my dad got to him first.”

A cold dread settled in Jones’s chest.

“Jeremy—”

Jeremy sobbed, his voice heightened with guilt.

“That’s why I saved you, Detective. I needed to be the one to kill you, so that his voice will leave me alone. I’m so sorry! I need it to STOP!”

Jones fought to shake off the grogginess. His vision flickered, and his head throbbed with pain. The car slowed to a stop and jerked him forward. The car was silent except for Jeremy’s labored breathing.

“Okay… okay. We’re here. Let’s get this over with.” Jeremy muttered to himself. With a sharp exhale, he shoved the door open and slammed it behind him. Moments later, the passenger door was ripped open.

“Come on, Detective. We don’t have much time.” Jeremy reached for Jones and pulled him up with surprise strength. Jones grunted in protest, but he was so weak and dizzy, he failed to resist as Jeremy shoved him forward.

Once inside, Jeremy half-carried, half dragged Jones up the stairs. He shoved Jones to the floor at the top and pinned him down with unnatural strength.

Jones gasped for air as Jeremy straddled him, his hands clamped around Jones’s throat.

“I’m so sorry, Detective.” Jeremy cried. “I need him to LEAVE ME ALONE!”

With the last of his strength, Jones managed to push Jeremy. Jeremy fell off balance and stumbled backwards. In a split second, he went over the edge of the stair rail, and his body crashed down on the ground below.

The house fell silent.

Jones’s chest heaved as the weight of what just happened settled on him. He pulled himself up and stumbled down the stairs. He saw Jeremy’s lifeless body twisted on the floor. As Jones made his way out of the house, the first light of dawn crept through the dusty windows. The house’s groan echoed through the walls. It made one final exhale, as it released the grip of Clayton Oswald’s spirit.

For the first time in decades, the house’s oppressive weight lifted and the air lightened. However, a heavy feeling of guilt lingered in Jones’s chest. The legacy of Clayton Oswald was finally gone and the curse was broken—but it was broken at a terrible cost.

Meranda Plaisance is a U.S.-based writer whose work spans children’s literature, emotionally driven fiction, and psychological horror. She is the author of the Neve and Beck children’s book series, but she is most drawn to horror as an atmosphere-driven form of storytelling. Whispers at Hallow Creek reflects her love of tension, memory, and unease.