This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/No-Glass-3279 on 2024-10-09 16:41:21+00:00.
The iron shutters are already closed, each one clanging into place as Dad moves from window to window, his face set and pale in the fading light. I press my fingers to the cold metal, feeling their weight and the chill that seeps through. They’re old, heavy, and rusted, but they’re the only thing standing between us and her. Lady Gray. The only thing keeping her out. I try to convince myself they’ll hold, but every year someone makes a mistake, and she gets in.
Our town is small, barely 500 people, nestled by the sea. On the surface, it’s picturesque—white houses with picket fences, gardens bursting with flowers, and the kind of charm you see on postcards. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was perfect. But there’s a heaviness here, like a fog that settles from the sea and never quite leaves. It lingers, weighing down on you, making it hard to breathe. Everyone feels it. Everyone knows why. The shutters on every house aren’t just a quaint tradition; they’re a necessity. The iron, ancient and rusting, is meant to keep her out.
Lady Gray. The wife of the town’s founder, her story woven into every brick and stone of this place. The older folks say she was once beautiful, but there was nothing beautiful about her now. She had a habit of collecting families, luring them into her grasp. What she did to them is still a mystery, but when they tore up her garden—bodies, small and large, were found beneath the flowers she so carefully tended—it was clear she was far more than a ghost story. The gardener, who found the first tiny skull, dropped his shovel and ran straight to the constable, leaving the gardenias trampled in his wake. That night, her laughter filled the air, and she’s haunted us ever since.
Tonight, she comes again. We’ve been preparing for hours. Every few months, Mr. Shawn, the Crosscreek Cemetery caretaker, hears the first sign—Lady Gray’s laughter echoing from her tomb. It’s his warning to us all. We have one job: seal up the house. One forgotten window, a single open door, that’s all she needs.
We’re in the basement now. Mom, Dad, my little brother, and me, huddled together like animals in a den. The air is thick with the scent of fear and the musty smell of the old blankets we clutch like they’ll protect us. The darkness presses down, and every sound feels too loud. My heart pounds so hard I’m sure she can hear it. We sit in silence, listening. Waiting.
And then it begins—the laughter, a high-pitched cackle that echoes through the streets. It’s close, so close it feels like she’s standing right outside our door, her breath fogging the glass. Then, it drifts, moving away like she’s toying with us, hiding just out of sight. I clamp my hands over my ears, but it doesn’t help. The sound worms its way into my head, clawing at the edges of my sanity.
The next thing I hear is the scratching. It’s soft at first, like the rustle of branches against the shutters, but then it grows louder, scraping and clawing as if she’s testing every window, every door, looking for a weak spot. My brother whimpers beside me, and I squeeze his hand, trying to stay calm. My breath comes in short, panicked gasps. It’s like she’s everywhere at once—above us, below us, scratching at the roof, clawing at the walls. I can almost feel her long nails dragging against the iron, seeking a way in.
Minutes pass like hours. The scratching intensifies, each scrape a reminder that she’s out there, waiting.
Suddenly, silence.
We sit in the quiet for a while, barely daring to breathe until we heard it. Faint at first but growing louder, come the screams. Someone else this time. My mother’s grip tightens on my arm, her nails digging into my skin, but I barely feel it. All I can focus on is that scream—high, desperate, and echoing through the night. We listen, paralyzed, every muscle frozen in terror as the sound rises and then fades into silence.
When the dawn finally breaks, we venture out. The air is heavy with dread as we learn the news. It was the McLearys. They’d forgotten to shutter their attic. The hazmat team is still there, their suits glinting in the morning sun as they comb through what’s left. I don’t want to know what they’ve found.
If you ever think about moving to Terra Grace, Maine, don’t. Ignore the beautiful two-story with its cheerful garden and odd iron shutters listed on the website for a too-good-to-be-true price. Maybe try the South instead.