31 Days of Horror

The old house groaned as the wind howled outside, sending shivers through its aging wood and rattling the loose panes of the windows. Inside, the group of five teens huddled in the dimly lit living room, a haze of drunken laughter and the low hum of music filling the space. Jason's father was away on a business trip—yet again—leaving the place free for another night of careless fun. Bottles littered the floor, and the acrid smell of beer mixed with the faint tang of sweat in the close air.

The game had started like many urban legends—vague, full of eerie promises and whispered warnings. A curse that had swept through Ridgemont High, turning late-night dares into something far more sinister. At first, it was just another story to tell in the dark, a way to scare the freshmen during sleepovers or freak out the timid kids who never got invited to the cool parties. But this one was different. This one felt… heavier. There was something about it, something unsettling in the way the words were passed around, whispered behind cupped hands with nervous glances thrown over shoulders.

The rules were deceptively simple. A group would gather, holding hands in a circle, and chant the cursed words—words no one could trace back to any language. The chant had a rhythm, a slow, creeping cadence that seemed to echo off the walls, even in a whisper. The legend said that if the group included a virgin, something would come. Something wrong. At that point, no one had ever seen what, or if they had, they were never heard from again.

The poem that accompanied the game—the words everyone had to say—was scrawled on some anonymous Reddit post, typed in a shaking hand by a former student who claimed to have "seen the truth." It had become a rite of passage for the bravest—or stupidest—of the seniors.

The game went like this:

The group must gather in a house after dark. The house had to be quiet, no music, no distractions.

Everyone must form a circle and hold hands. No breaking the circle, no matter what happens.

One person must light a single candle in the center, and the chant must begin.

The words were whispered at first, everyone murmuring the strange syllables that felt wrong in their mouths. The first part was meant to "summon" something from the shadows. But the chant wasn’t the real curse. It was the blood that bound the game, and no one knew this truth until it was far too late.

The legend said the virgin was the key, but that was a lie. The curse had never been about purity. It was about blood—about how much you were willing to spill before the end.

The real curse had begun when Detective Raymond Hale disappeared. It had been nine days since anyone had seen him, but his car was found just outside the old dirt road near the edge of town, abandoned, the door hanging open like he’d left in a hurry. Inside, there was blood. It streaked across the dashboard, dripped down the steering wheel, and pooled on the seat. His notebook was left in the passenger seat, spattered with droplets of crimson. The only words legible, written in what appeared to be Raymond's own blood, were:

"Beware the Crawler, born in shadows deep,

It watches as you tremble, in silence it will creep.

Limbs like twisted branches, eyes that never sleep,

Its smile a jagged nightmare, a promise it will keep.

"It slithers from the darkness, where lost souls dare to go,

It feeds on fear and suffering, and your blood it will sow.

Its teeth are sharp as razors, its claws are death's design,

Beware the Crawler, dear one, for tonight it comes for thine."

"Come on, it’s bullshit," Jason slurred, waving a hand dismissively as he leaned back on the couch. He grinned at the others—Lucy, Emma, and Mark. Two others—Brittany and her boyfriend, Tom—had slipped off to "explore" Jason’s bedroom a few minutes earlier.

Jason, sprawled lazily on the couch, snickered and downed another swig of his beer. "This is so dumb," he muttered, though he didn’t make any move to stop the others. He loved the feeling of being in control, of seeing his friends act foolish under his roof while his dad was away on business. It gave him a strange sense of power.

Emma, the ringleader of this spontaneous disaster, was leaning forward in her chair, eyes glassy from the alcohol, her usually soft features hardening with determination as she glanced at the others. "Come on, you cowards. We said we’d do it," she said, her words slightly slurred. There was a flicker of hesitation in her gaze, but the buzz made it easy to push away any second thoughts.

Lucy giggled nervously, exchanging a look with Mark. "Yeah, let’s just do it," she said, voice tinged with both excitement and unease. She handed the vodka bottle to Emma, but her fingers trembled slightly. The idea of playing the game—the one they had all been talking about for days—was thrilling in a reckless, dangerous way. A way they never quite admitted aloud.

Mark, ever the jokester, raised his beer in mock salute. "Oooh, I’m so scared," he said with a dramatic roll of his eyes, though even he couldn’t hide the flicker of unease crawling up his spine. The room had taken on a strange heaviness, an oppressive quiet settling in between their bursts of laughter.

The group shuffled into a loose circle around the coffee table, clumsily reaching for each other's hands. The warmth of their palms felt strange, uncomfortable, and the moment their fingers linked, the laughter died down. Drunken giggles turned into quiet snickers, and then into silence. The reality of what they were about to do settled in, even if they didn’t fully believe it.

Lucy looked at the others with wide eyes. "You guys ready?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper now. No one responded. They didn’t need to. They all knew what they had come here for.

Emma took a deep breath, her face flushed not just from the alcohol but from the anticipation. She pulled out her phone, the glow of the screen casting eerie shadows over her face as she scrolled to the bookmarked page—the website where they’d found the chant. It was supposed to be a joke, just some creepy thing they’d heard about through friends of friends. No one had ever finished it, or so the rumor went. Supposedly, if they did it right, something…something dark would happen.

In the center of the room, Emma placed the candle. The flame sputtered as if it, too, was unsure whether it wanted to be part of this. The soft glow barely illuminated the group, casting just enough light to make the shadows on the walls seem darker, deeper. The house felt smaller, the air thicker, and the distant wail of the wind outside sounded more like a scream now.

Emma cleared her throat, trying to shake off the chills creeping up her neck. She glanced around the circle, her eyes settling on each of them in turn—Lucy, Mark, Jason. Her lips parted, and she began to chant, her voice soft at first, hesitant.

The words were strange, guttural, the syllables not flowing naturally from her mouth. They felt wrong, like they shouldn’t be spoken, like they didn’t belong to this world. But she kept going. As Emma chanted, the others followed suit, their voices low, unsteady.

It started as a whisper, their voices timid, as though they were trying not to wake something. But as the words continued to tumble from their lips, the rhythm took hold. The chant grew louder, more insistent. They repeated the nonsense words over and over, their drunken courage swelling with each repetition. The words felt heavy in their mouths, like they were pulling something up from the dark corners of the house, dragging it out of the shadows. They didn't understand the meaning of the chant, but something deep down told them that meaning didn’t matter. It was the sound, the intent, the fact that they had chosen to say these words aloud.

The lamp flickered violently, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to reach out from the walls, as if the darkness itself was listening, waiting. The wind outside slammed against the windows, rattling them so hard it felt like the glass might shatter at any second. The room itself seemed to be shrinking, pressing in on them, suffocating in its intensity.

Then the chant stopped.

The last syllable slipped from Emma’s lips, followed by an eerie, suffocating silence. For a heartbeat, no one spoke. The only sound was the erratic beating of their hearts, the blood rushing in their ears. Jason’s hand twitched in Lucy’s, his knuckles turning white as he squeezed harder without realizing it.

For a moment, nothing happened. The group exchanged uneasy glances, waiting for something—anything. Jason let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head.

"See? Just a load of—"

Thud.

The sound came from inside the walls. It was faint at first, barely a whisper in the otherwise still house, like something brushing lightly against the wood. The laughter died in their throats, each of them turning slowly to look at the nearest wall. Jason froze, his words dying on his lips. His bravado flickered, replaced with a creeping sense of unease.

Another thud followed, louder this time, more insistent. Then, the unmistakable sound of muffled crying. Faint, weak—like someone deep inside the walls, trapped, trying desperately to be heard.

"Did… did you hear that?" Lucy whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. She was pale, her eyes wide as she took a step back.

"Shut up," Jason snapped, though his voice wavered, betraying his own fear. He stared at the wall, fingers twitching as though he wanted to reach out and touch it, but he stayed frozen, rooted in place by the rising dread.

Thud-thud-thud.

The cries grew louder now, more frantic, more desperate. Whatever was inside the walls was struggling, as if suffocating, scratching to break free. The walls themselves seemed to shudder with each thud, the old plaster trembling as though something immense was pressing against it, trying to tear its way through.

"Jason… what the hell is that?" Emma’s voice cracked as she stood, slowly backing away from the wall. Her face was drained of color, and the alcohol-fueled excitement of moments ago had vanished.

The crying intensified, ragged gasps accompanying the desperate scratching that seemed to echo from all around them. It was the sound of nails dragging, grating against wood, filling the room with a sharp, nerve-shredding noise that sent chills down their spines.

"It’s just a trick," Mark said, but his voice shook, betraying his own disbelief. "Someone’s messing with us."

But before anyone could respond, the sound grew even more intense. The crying turned into a shriek—loud and piercing, a sound that seemed to come from everywhere at once. It burrowed into their skulls, like nails driven into their brains. The walls began to bulge, the plaster cracking, as if something massive was pushing from the other side. Thin lines of blood seeped through the cracks, dark and oily, running down the walls and pooling at the baseboards, staining the wooden floor.

"Oh God…" Lucy gagged, stumbling backward as she clutched her stomach. "What the fuck is happening?"

Without warning, the wall nearest to Jason buckled, splintering outward as something tore through it. A hand—no, not a hand—an elongated claw, slick with blood and bile, punched through the plaster. Its jagged fingers curled inward, the sharp points glistening in the dim light. The walls themselves seemed to groan in agony, the house shaking as more claws followed, raking down, peeling the walls apart like rotten flesh.

Jason screamed, stumbling back as the thing emerged—a twisted figure, crawling out from the very structure of the house. Its body was grotesque, its skin pale and slick, stretched too tight over broken bones that jutted out unnaturally. Its mouth hung open in a sickening grin, the lips pulled back to reveal rows of sharp, jagged teeth. And its eyes—hollow, empty pits—locked onto Jason with an unnatural hunger.

"I’ve been waiting," the creature whispered, its voice low, mocking, the same eerie tone Detective Raymond Hale had heard before his death. "Do you know how much blood it takes to disappear?"

It moved with impossible speed, lunging at Jason, its claws sinking deep into his chest. Blood sprayed in violent arcs as it tore through his skin, his screams echoing through the room, filling the air with horror. Jason’s body convulsed, his eyes wide in terror as the thing ripped him open, his chest cavity collapsing with a wet, sickening crunch. His insides spilled onto the floor, the scent of iron thickening the air as it mixed with the blood pooling beneath him.

Lucy screamed, scrambling backward, slipping in the growing pool of blood that was spreading across the floor. Emma stood frozen in place, tears streaming down her face as she watched in mute horror, unable to move, unable to comprehend the nightmare unfolding in front of her.

Mark bolted for the door, but before he could reach it, the walls around him exploded outward. More hands, more claws, began to emerge from every surface, the house itself seemingly alive, bursting with creatures that crawled out from the dark. They grinned as they moved, their hollow eyes filled with hunger.

The thing that had crawled out of the walls dragged itself over Jason’s lifeless body, its face inches from Lucy’s now. Its grin widened, its voice dropping to a chilling whisper.

"I’ve been watching all of you."

Mark was the next to fall. His scream was cut short as the creatures swarmed him, ripping into his flesh with claws that tore through skin and bone. The sound of tearing, of flesh ripping away from muscle, echoed through the house, mixing with the wet splatter of blood hitting the walls and floors. The house had become a slaughterhouse, a living entity that feasted on their fear, on their flesh.

Lucy tried to crawl away, her hands slick with blood, but it was no use. The thing reached for her, its claws slicing clean through her legs. She shrieked as it dragged her back, her body convulsing in pain. The creature's mouth opened impossibly wide, its jagged teeth gleaming as it leaned in, whispering with dark amusement.

"Do you know how much it will take?"

The creatures tore through the remaining teens with relentless brutality, their bodies broken and consumed, their screams swallowed by the walls that closed in around them. Blood ran thick, soaking into the wooden floor, dripping from the ceiling like rain.

And all the while, the walls themselves continued to cry, continued to scream, continued to beg for escape—just like their victims had.

But there was no escape. Not from this house. Not from the Crawler.

When the last of the group was torn apart, the house fell silent once more. The blood that had flowed so freely began to seep away, disappearing into the cracks of the walls. The splintered plaster and broken wood mended themselves, the walls sealing, returning to their cold, unfeeling state.

Ridgemont would wake to find five more names added to the growing list of the missing. But no one would know what had truly happened. No one would know what lurked behind the walls of Jason’s house.

But the walls—they would always know the truth. And they would always hunger for more.