an old house in the middle of a field

The old house stood at the end of a dirt road, shrouded in an unnatural silence that pressed against the eardrums like a physical weight. It had been vacant for years, its windows like empty eyes staring out at the world. The locals whispered tales of the family who had lived there, a family torn apart by tragedy, their screams echoing through the night before vanishing into the abyss of time. I, a young and foolish thrill-seeker, had heard these tales, but dismissed them as mere folklore. I decided to explore the house, fueled by a morbid curiosity and a desire to prove the stories false. The rusty gate creaked open with a groan, as if protesting my intrusion. The air grew colder as I stepped onto the overgrown lawn, a chill crawling up my spine despite the summer heat. The front door hung open, its hinges rusted and groaning. Inside, dust motes danced in the pale moonlight filtering through the grimy windows. The air was thick with the scent of decay and something else, something I couldn't quite pla