Broke and desperate to give her son a home, 34-year-old nurse Maya Coleman spent her last $900 on Mercer House, a crumbling farmhouse on the outskirts of Ashfield County. Locals whispered about its dark past — strange lights in the woods, families vanishing, a legacy of fear. But with nowhere else to turn, Maya and her eight-year-old son Eli moved in, hoping to start fresh.
The first night was a disaster. Thick mold filled the rooms, triggering Eli’s asthma. They abandoned the house and spent the night huddled in their car, shivering in the cold, listening to the wind howl through the trees. By morning, Maya returned to face the nightmare — and found something extraordinary.
Beneath a loose floorboard in the living room, she uncovered an old journal, brittle photographs, and a brass key. The key fit a hidden hatch that led to a bunker carved deep beneath Mercer House. She hesitated at the edge, flashlight shaking in hand, Eli clutching her jacket. Dust floated in the beam, the scent of earth and iron thick in the air.
The bunker was larger than she expected. Metal shelves lined the walls, stacked with canned goods, boxes of candles, and yellowed newspapers. In the center, a table bore a detailed map of Ashfield County with red circles marking locations, including Mercer House itself. Against one wall sat a small cot with a moth-eaten blanket, a tin cup, and a lantern. Above it, scratched into concrete, were the chilling words:
“They came from below.”
A low hum vibrated under Maya’s feet, like machinery deep in the earth. Then came a scrape — metal against concrete. She froze, flashlight cutting through shadows, and saw a second door hidden behind a stack of boxes. Bolted shut, yet something thudded softly from the other side.
“Someone’s in there,” Eli whispered.
Maya pulled him toward the ladder. “No one’s been here for years.”
As they climbed out, she saw the bolt on the secret door slide upward — slow, deliberate. Her heart raced. That night, wind rattled the shutters, and at 2 a.m., a dull clang echoed from the backyard. “It’s trying to come out,” Eli whimpered.
The next morning, the air in the house felt heavier, as if the mold had deepened overnight. Maya brewed coffee with trembling hands, eyeing the hatch beneath the oak tree. She should have called the sheriff, but who would believe her story?
Later, Sheriff Harlan arrived, checking on the new owner of Mercer House. When he glanced at the hatch, a chill ran down Maya’s spine. “Old houses like this got secrets,” he said. “My daddy used to talk about the Mercers. Disappeared one night. Army sealed the property. Never found bodies. Keep that door shut.”
That night, Maya dreamed of the second door opening, a small boy stepping out, whispering: “It’s still hungry.” She woke to Eli coughing, the smell of mold stronger, the hatch key lying on the counter, wet with fresh dirt. She hadn’t touched it.
Descending the ladder, she found the bunker lights flickered on by themselves. A figure stood by the table — a woman in a bloodstained apron, holding the journal, tears in her eyes.
“Welcome home,” Eleanor Mercer whispered.
The second door began to open. The woman, impossibly real, with auburn hair pinned in a decades-old style, shook her head. “You shouldn’t have opened it. We sealed it for a reason. It wasn’t to keep us safe. It was to keep it in.”
From behind the door came a low rumble — shapes twisting, whispers overlapping, and a familiar face distorted in the darkness. Maya realized with terror that Mercer House wasn’t haunted. It was alive. It remembered. And now, it wanted them home.
Maya grabbed Eli and ran, the voices chasing them. Outside, the ground beneath the oak tree split open, veins of pulsing light revealing something ancient. Sirens wailed in the distance, but deep down, she knew the truth: no one was coming to save them. Mercer House had never wanted them gone. It had wanted them home
