Ethan never believed in ghosts. That was, until he spent the night at the old Sinclair house.
The house had been abandoned for decades, its wooden frame rotting, its windows shattered. Locals whispered about the people who had disappeared there, but Ethan laughed at the stories. “Just superstitions,” he told his friend Ryan as they stepped inside.
The air was thick with dust, and the floorboards groaned under their weight. They set up their cameras, determined to prove there was nothing paranormal. But as the clock struck midnight, the temperature dropped. A whisper floated through the air.
“Don’t let them touch you…”
Ethan froze. “Did you hear that?” he whispered.
Ryan nodded, his face pale. The whisper came again, closer this time. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the walls, writhing like living things.
Then they saw them—figures emerging from the darkness. Their faces were hollow, their fingers long and reaching.
Ethan stumbled back. “Run!”
Ryan turned, but one of the figures touched his arm. A chilling scream ripped through the air as Ryan’s body withered before Ethan’s eyes. His skin turned gray, his eyes hollow, his mouth frozen in silent agony.
Ethan ran, the whispers chasing him.
“Don’t let them touch you…”
He barely made it out, collapsing on the cold pavement outside. The house stood silent again, as if nothing had happened.
Ryan was gone.
The next day, the police searched the house. They found Ethan’s equipment—but no trace of Ryan.
That night, Ethan lay in bed, shaking. He tried to convince himself it was a nightmare. But then he heard it—soft, hissing, right by his ear.
“Don’t let them touch you…”