Every year, on Halloween night, an eerie transformation grips the old Bradbury house. Hidden deep within a twisted forest, the house was always abandoned, covered in creeping vines, and decaying wood—until October 31st.
As the clock strikes midnight, the house awakens. Vines slither across the ground like snakes, entwining themselves around the dead trees, drawing them closer. The structure groans as its windows flicker to life, glowing a sinister green. The once lifeless doors creak open, revealing sharp, jagged teeth lining the frame. The house isn’t merely alive—it’s hungry.
No one who entered on Halloween was ever seen again. Legend says the souls of those who dare step inside feed the house’s insatiable appetite. It lures them with faint whispers, calling them by name, as the walls pulse and shift like a living organism. Inside, the air is thick with decay, and the floorboards seem to stretch endlessly. Each step forward only pulls you deeper into its clutches. By dawn, the house returns to its dormant state, waiting patiently for its next victim—next Halloween.
The town stays far away, marking its boundaries with warnings: “Enter at your own risk, for the Bradbury house never forgets.”
