The House on Larkspur Lane

When I was a kid, my family lived in a sprawling Victorian on Larkspur Lane. The house had been in our family for generations, and it was always the gathering place for every distant relative, godparent, and family friend. Our block was like a small village; everyone knew everyone, and if you weren’t blood, you were still family. The parties were legendary – music blaring, laughter spilling out onto the porch, and the smell of barbecue drifting through the summer air. But as the years went on, the gatherings turned darker. The adults would drink too much, the teenagers would sneak off with pills and powders, and sometimes fights would break out that ended with someone getting hurt. The cops were regular visitors, but they never stayed long. The atmosphere was toxic, and I knew it wasn’t a place for a kid like me. I spent most of my time hiding in my room, reading or listening to music, trying to block out the chaos below.

My cousin Rosa, who was a few years older, was obsessed with the ouija board. Whenever she and her friends got high enough, they’d drag it out and start asking questions. They told wild stories about how one time, a spirit took control of their friend and tried to throw herself out the window. Another time, they said the planchette moved on its own, spelling out a name that none of them recognized: Edwin. They claimed Edwin lived in the abandoned house across the street, the one with the boarded-up windows and the sagging porch. They said he would come to them every night, and he was always angry. I never believed them, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with that house.

One winter night, when I was about ten, my parents were away and my grandma was watching me. The house was quieter than usual, but I could hear my older cousins in the basement, their voices low and excited. I was lying in bed, trying to sleep, when I heard a scraping sound outside my window. I lived on the second floor, so I thought it was a branch. But the sound was rhythmic, like fingernails dragging across glass. I pulled back the curtain and saw a figure standing on the lawn, looking right at me. It was tall and thin, with long arms that hung almost to its knees. It had no face – just a smooth, pale surface where features should be. I froze, my heart pounding. Then it raised one hand and pointed at me. A voice, cold and clear, cut through the glass: ‘Edwin wants to play.’ I screamed and dove under the covers, but when I finally peeked out, the figure was gone.

I tried to forget about it, convincing myself it was a nightmare. But the next morning, I found scratch marks on the outside of my window – deep grooves in the wood, like claw marks. I told my grandma, but she dismissed it as the work of a raccoon. I didn’t argue, but I knew what I had seen. Over the next few weeks, things got stranger. My cousin Rosa started acting different – distant, jumpy, her eyes always darting to the window. She stopped smiling. She stopped talking to us. Then one night, she came to my room, her face pale and streaked with tears. ‘He’s in my head,’ she whispered. ‘Edwin. He won’t stop talking. He says the house is his, and he wants us all out.’ I tried to comfort her, but she just shook her head. ‘I’ve seen him. He stands at the foot of my bed every night, just watching. And his face… it’s not blank. It’s full of holes, and there are things crawling in them.’

The next day, Rosa disappeared. The police searched for weeks, but they found nothing. The family was devastated, but the parties continued – they always did. I was left alone with my fear. A few weeks later, I was in the attic, looking for old Christmas decorations, when I found a diary hidden behind a loose brick. It was Rosa’s. The last entry was dated the night she vanished. It read: ‘Edwin showed me the door. It’s in the cellar, the one that’s always locked. He says he’s been waiting for someone to open it. He says once I open it, I can be with him forever. I’m scared, but I have to know. I’m going to open it tonight.’ I dropped the diary and ran down to the cellar. The door was there, right where she described – a heavy iron door set into the stone wall, covered in rust. It was slightly ajar, and a cold draft seeped through the crack. I could hear a faint sound, like a child humming a lullaby. I pushed the door open. Beyond it was a narrow staircase descending into darkness.

I should have closed the door and run. But something pulled me forward. I took out my phone and turned on the flashlight, its beam cutting through the black. The stairs led to a small room with dirt walls and a dirt floor. In the center was a wooden chair, and in the chair sat a figure. It was the same faceless thing I had seen outside my window. But now, its face was not blank – it was shifting, like static on a TV. And on its lap lay a photograph of Rosa, her eyes wide with terror. The humming stopped. The figure tilted its head, and a voice that was not a voice filled my mind: ‘You found me. I’ve been waiting for you.’ I turned and ran, not stopping until I burst through the front door, gasping for air. When I looked back, the house seemed to sag, as if it had been holding its breath. I knew then that Edwin was not a ghost from the house across the street. He was something older, something that had been sleeping in the foundation of our home, feeding on the fear and chaos that had soaked into the walls for decades.

I never went back to that house. I stayed with a friend, and eventually, my parents sold the place. I heard later that the new owners experienced strange things – knocking on the walls, cold spots, and a child’s voice asking to play. But I already knew. The house on Larkspur Lane was not a home. It was a gateway, and Edwin was always waiting on the other side. Sometimes, late at night, I still hear that humming. And I know, somehow, that he’s still there, on the other side of a door that should never be opened.