The real estate agent stood on the corner of the street staring at the house that she was supposed to sell. She had tried many times to sell it, but for some reason no one would buy it. She had shown it to many people, and many had made offers, but just as the offer was about to be accepted, they would back out.
But not even the real estate agent knew of the demons that lived in the house.
By looking at the house that took up the entire corner of Viscount and Ryding, no one would be able to tell the evil that took place inside. The pale yellow paint that covered the house’s exterior bellied the tortures that existed inside. The bright white door and porch contrasted the darkness that was a constant friend to those who lived there.
The house had been stayed for over 100 years, but even without being kept, the house managed to stay pristine on the outside. It was finally federal property, so it was being sold.
Those more prone to feeling the energies and auras of spirts long departed cannot be in the house for long without the terrifying screams finally getting to them. Mediums and psychics have deemed the house untouchable, since they cannot get within one mile of the house before they feel the pain those have endured living in that house. Those who have no inclination towards the undead, and have no extra feelings, get bogged down by the sadness that comes with being within one foot of the house. When the neighbors walk by the house, they get a chill that runs down the back of their spine.
The history of the town mysteriously has nothing written about the house. The history of the house is the best well-kept secret in the country.
There was a man, a rich man, whose name is unknown, from England, who wanted to build his own house. He hired carpenters and construction companies, and they built the lovely Victorian style home. It was large, four bedrooms, one master bedroom, two full bathrooms, a large living room, a kitchen and dining room. But, the most important part of the house, the basement.
It is longer and wider than the house itself. It had a special purpose.
At this time, almost no one lived in the small town. So the man could go about his business with no one noticing what he was doing. He came over from England with a bevy of servants. Upstairs maids, cook, housekeeper, and downstairs maids, but oddly, no butler. If someone were to watch the comings and goings of the house, they would notice only females coming in and out, working, and never any males. The man had no friends who visited him, no one to question his business.
On the outside, the house looked lovely. On the inside, the house was hideous.
At night, the man would walk down the stairs to the basement, where another group of women lived. They were not servants, nor were they illegal slaves. They lived in the basement, never seeing the sunlight. When the man would walk down the stairs, all 10 of them would immediately get on their knees.
“Welcome home, Master,” They would whisper. Master didn’t like loud noises.
He would slowly strip down, so he would not destroy his clothing. That’s when the women knew their torture was about to start.
Unspeakable crimes were committed in that house. Crimes no one knows about. The history died when the Master did. The girls, not knowing what to do with themselves, having lived with their Master for so long, waited in the basement of the house, screaming and crying, some even killing themselves. The servants had all died along with the man, who, when he realized he was dying, poisoned his staff so no one would know the details of his heinous actions.
And still, the real estate agent took one step towards the house, and for some inexplicable reason, decided to come back another day to fix the house to be sold.