It was supposed to be a simple move, new apartment, fresh start, peace and quiet, far from the city noise. But from the very first night, I knew house number 47 wasn't normal.
My name is Elliot. I'm a mystery novelist living in a small town in northern England. I bought an old house over 100 years old for a ridiculously low price. The neighbors avoided talking about it. Every time I asked someone, they'd change the subject or walk away.
The first night, quiet, until I heard footsteps upstairs. I live alone. No one else was there. I grabbed a flashlight and went up. Nothing. But in the far corner, hidden in the shadows, there was a small door I hadn't seen before. I opened it. And that's when the story began.
Inside was a tiny room with an antique typewriter. On it a sheet of paper read, Write to survive, but don't lie. From that moment on, every morning I'd find a new page on the typewriter, demanding I write a story. If I ignored it, the house would react. Whispers, shadows, faces in mirrors, even the walls, breathing, so I wrote.
But every story I wrote came true. I wrote about a fire in the town library. It burned down two days later. I wrote about a man disappearing in the woods. My neighbor vanished the next morning.
I realized the house didn't want fiction. It wanted reality. It wanted control.
I wrote a story about a man escaping a haunted house and finding refuge in an abandoned church. Hours later, I found myself inside that exact church, and there. An old monk was waiting for me, like he'd known me forever.
He said, House number. 47 isn't just a place. It's a being. It chooses writers and uses them to shape its world. The only way out is to write its end.
I returned to the house, sat at the typewriter and wrote, The next morning, house number 47 collapsed and vanished from existence, as if it had never been there. I wrote it trembling, every word felt like it was tearing something out of me. And the next day, the house was gone, just an empty lot. No one remembered it, except me.
Since then, I've never written another word, because some stories aren't meant to be told. Some stories live inside you forever.
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