The house had been there for as long as anyone in the town could remember, standing at the edge of the dark woods like a silent guardian. It was old, its wooden beams worn and gray with age, but somehow it never seemed abandoned. The windows were always clean, the porch swept, the lantern by the front door always lit at dusk. Yet no one had ever seen anyone enter or leave.
Children dared each other to run up and knock on the door, but none ever did. Adults passed by with uneasy glances, hurrying their steps as if they could feel something watching them from within. Stories about the house had been whispered for generations—some said a witch lived there, others that it was cursed. But the truth, if there was one, remained unknown.
One autumn evening, Daniel Mercer arrived in town. He was a writer, searching for inspiration, and the stories about the house intrigued him. The locals warned him to stay away, but that only fueled his curiosity.
On his third night in town, unable to resist any longer, Daniel took his lantern and walked to the house. The air grew colder as he approached, and the wind whispered through the trees like a voice just out of reach. The house loomed before him, and for the first time in his life, he felt truly small.
He knocked.
The door creaked open as if it had been waiting for him. Inside, the house was warm and inviting, the air scented with something like cinnamon and old paper. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls. A chair sat facing the fire, and as Daniel stepped inside, the chair slowly turned.
An old woman sat there, her eyes bright and knowing. She smiled. “I’ve been expecting you,” she said.
Daniel’s breath caught. “You have?”
She nodded. “Writers always come.”
He swallowed. “Who are you?”
The woman leaned forward slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I am the keeper of stories. And now, so are you.”
The door swung shut behind him, and the lantern in his hand flickered once—then went out.
