Prompt is from Writeworld
There is an unnamed hamlet. Peaceful. Sleepy. God-fearing. The land is not forest. Farmland. Swathes and swathes of them. There is no dark history. No recorded dark history. No known dark history.
There is a house. Wooden. A holiday home. Once owned. No longer. It is sealed shut. No “For Sale” sign. No activity. No one knows how long it has been abandoned. But it is quiet and blends with the hamlet perfectly.
And now it is night time. Not stormy. Quiet. Perfectly so. Crickets chirping. Blissful. Balmy breeze. Serene.
Too serene. Too blissful. Too perfectly so.
It is the calm before the storm. It creeps up, soundless. Noiseless. Unsignalled. If you closed your eyes you might hear the faint approach. The slowly creeping. Leaking from the empty. There is the whisper of laughter. Not adult. Not children. Not human. Never was.
Then it gathers, swells. Forgotten, dark hidden seed grows, nourished, fattened by unknown forces. Not immediately. Days. Months. Years. And then the time comes. It ripens. Blossoms. Bears fruit. Bears harvest. Bad harvest. Terrible harvest.
Finally the holiday cabin’s door creaks open. Skeletal hands prise the sealed door open. White. Clammy. Cold. A yellow eye peers through the crack. A Cheshire grin. It promises the world, the otherworld and the stars.
Then it drags you back into the void with it, and grants its greatest blessing of all.