stake id : dafdeften
the story:
The House That Blinked
Every Halloween the kids on Ashford Lane dared each other to run up to the old Merrin House, the one with the boarded windows and the crooked weather vane that always pointed east no matter which way the wind blew.
Nobody ever got closer than the porch because sometimes, if you stared long enough, the house blinked.
Not with lights or people inside, but with windows. They would open and close like eyes, shutters creaking like eyelids. Once, a brave kid named Rory swore he saw a curtain lift itself, peeking out, like the house was trying to see who was watching it.
This year Rory decided he was done with stories. He was going in.
He waited until midnight because of course he did, flashlight trembling in his hand. The air was cold but the doorknob was warm. He pushed and the door swung open with a sigh that sounded almost relieved.
Inside it smelled like dust and rain. Every step he took echoed as if someone else were walking a split second behind him. He aimed the flashlight down the hall and for a moment he thought he saw the walls ripple as though they were breathing.
Then he heard it, a whisper right by his ear:
You finally came back.
The light flickered out.
When the neighbors found the Merrin House the next morning, the boards had all fallen from the windows. The house looked newer somehow, brighter. And in the upstairs window there was a silhouette of a boy, smiling and waving.
No one has seen Rory since.
But every year, when the clock strikes midnight on Halloween, the house blinks.
And if you look close enough, you will see two shadows in the window this time, watching for who is next.