The Dare - 1

Everyone in town knew the Miller House—and everyone avoided it.

It stood on the lonely hill at the edge of town, its windows cracked like blind eyes, its porch sagging like a tired grin. The place wasn’t just old; it felt wrong. The kind of wrong that makes your stomach twist before your brain knows why.

They said Old Man Miller had gone insane one stormy night, twenty years ago. He didn’t use a weapon. He did something worse. He bricked his wife and two little kids inside the walls of his home—alive—and then disappeared. No one ever found him, and the house was left behind, quiet and rotting, with its secrets sealed inside.

After that, the Miller House wasn’t just a building—it was a warning.

That summer, my friends Jake and Liam and I kept daring each other to do stupid things. Jump from the quarry. Walk through the graveyard at midnight. Typical teenage nonsense. But that night, sitting in Jake’s dim basement, the game went too far.

Liam leaned forward, his grin wicked. “I dare you, Alex, to go inside the Miller House. Walk in, reach the living room, take a picture, and come back.”

I laughed, but my voice came out shaky. “You’re out of your mind. Nobody goes near that place.”

“That’s why it’s a dare,” Jake said, smirking. “Or are you scared?”

The word scared hit me like a slap. I was sixteen. Pride can be a dangerous thing.

“Fine,” I said, my heart already thudding. “I’ll do it.”

---

The path up to the house was overgrown, the weeds brushing against my jeans as if trying to hold me back. The moonlight made the cracked windows gleam like teeth. When I reached the door, I half-expected it to be locked, but it wasn’t. It creaked open by itself, a long, breathy sound that felt alive.

A wave of cold, stale air hit me. It smelled like dust, rot… and something faintly metallic. Blood, maybe.

I turned on my phone’s flashlight. The beam shook in my trembling hand, scattering shadows across the peeling wallpaper and broken furniture. Every creak of the floorboards sounded too loud.

The house felt aware. Like it had been waiting.

I forced myself toward the living room. Just take one picture and leave. Easy.

The furniture was covered in white sheets, glowing pale under my light. They looked like frozen ghosts, mid-waltz. I aimed my phone at the fireplace and clicked. The flash filled the room for a split second—long enough for me to see something.

A figure.

Small. Still. Standing in the corner.

I gasped and swung my light there, but there was nothing. Just a dusty coat stand with a hat.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Picture done. Let’s get out.”

I turned toward the door, relief washing through me—until I heard it.

A child’s voice.

Soft. Happy. Right next to my ear. So close I felt the warm puff of air when it spoke.

“Ready or not… here I come.”

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