08-12-2025, 09:58 PM
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The House of Echoing Madness
By Todd Doherty
From the Book: Nightmares and Other Stories (2025)
Galloway Manor stood like a rotting carcass on the edge of the forest, its silhouette twisted and skeletal against the pale moonlight. The three-story structure had once been a grand estate, boasting sprawling verandas and stained-glass windows that shimmered like captured fire. But time had turned beauty to decay—the paint peeled in long, curling strips like dead skin, and the ivy strangled the brick as if reclaiming what man had stolen from nature.
The team of five arrived just as the sun dipped beneath the trees, casting elongated shadows that stretched unnaturally, twitching as if alive. The night was thick with impending storm, the air charged with electricity that prickled against the skin like unseen fingers. The sky, once sprawling and endless, had turned into a suffocating canopy of churning black clouds, pressing down on the earth as if trying to smother it.
Mitchell, the leader, gripped his flashlight tightly, his knuckles pale. Olivia, the psychic, shivered despite the oppressive humidity. Darren, the cameraman, muttered about how the footage would look eerie under this lighting, unaware of how eerily perfect his words were. Sophie and Grant, the technical experts, set up their sound equipment, eager to capture spectral voices in the walls—though none dared admit how deeply they feared what they might actually hear.
The team set up their base in what had once been the manor’s grand dining room. The long banquet table was warped and cracked, its surface littered with dust and forgotten remnants of feasts long past. Sophie booted up her laptop, scrolling through archived reports of Galloway Manor’s history while the others unloaded their gear.
“This place has a reputation,” Sophie murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. “They say no one who stays longer than three nights ever leaves the same. Some say they don’t leave at all.”
Mitchell leaned in, intrigued. “Anything specific?”
“There’s a mix of stories,” she continued. “The original owner, Richard Galloway, was known for his obsession with séances. Some say he tried to summon his dead wife, but what came through wasn’t her. After that, the servants started disappearing. Then his daughter—she was found wandering the halls, babbling incoherently. She died a week later.”
“And the manor itself?” Olivia asked, her tone edged with unease.
Sophie exhaled, scanning deeper into the records. “It’s like the house is sentient. Every group that’s ever stayed here describes feeling watched, touched by something unseen. Some claim they heard voices whispering their names. And a few—well, the reports say they went completely insane.”
Darren scoffed. “You mean they imagined it?”
“I mean they were found clawing at the walls, tearing their own skin, begging to be let go,” Sophie corrected. “One man was found in the basement, curled into a ball, his nails ripped out. When they tried to talk to him, all he kept repeating was: ‘It’s inside me. It’s inside me.’”
A chill settled over the group. The wind outside howled, rattling the broken shutters, as if trying to warn them.
Mitchell pulled a map of the manor from his bag and spread it across the table. “We should explore before we jump to conclusions. There has to be a logical explanation for all this.”
The team split up, moving carefully through the decaying halls. The wallpaper, barely clinging to the walls, seemed to shift when they passed, curling as if recoiling from their presence. Darren documented everything, filming the corridors, the portraits with hollow-eyed figures whose gazes seemed to follow them. The house was silent, yet alive—a presence lurking beneath its stillness.
In one room, Olivia stopped abruptly. She ran her fingers over the rotted remains of a crib, her pulse hammering. “This was the nursery…” she murmured. “Galloway’s daughter slept here.”
Mitchell observed the tiny handprint smudged into the dust-covered glass of a nearby window—too fresh to be decades old.
They continued deeper into the house, moving toward the basement. As they descended, the air thickened, heavy with damp rot and something else—something rancid, something breathing.
Sophie hesitated at the threshold. “This is where they found him.”
Grant chuckled nervously, stepping forward. “Oh, come on. It’s just a basement—”
The door slammed shut behind them.
A gasp caught in Olivia’s throat. The walls seemed to pulse. The whispers began—soft, slithering, familiar.
Then, slowly, one by one, they realized—
The whispers were calling them by name.
The House of Echoing Madness
By Todd Doherty
From the Book: Nightmares and Other Stories (2025)
Galloway Manor stood like a rotting carcass on the edge of the forest, its silhouette twisted and skeletal against the pale moonlight. The three-story structure had once been a grand estate, boasting sprawling verandas and stained-glass windows that shimmered like captured fire. But time had turned beauty to decay—the paint peeled in long, curling strips like dead skin, and the ivy strangled the brick as if reclaiming what man had stolen from nature.
The team of five arrived just as the sun dipped beneath the trees, casting elongated shadows that stretched unnaturally, twitching as if alive. The night was thick with impending storm, the air charged with electricity that prickled against the skin like unseen fingers. The sky, once sprawling and endless, had turned into a suffocating canopy of churning black clouds, pressing down on the earth as if trying to smother it.
Mitchell, the leader, gripped his flashlight tightly, his knuckles pale. Olivia, the psychic, shivered despite the oppressive humidity. Darren, the cameraman, muttered about how the footage would look eerie under this lighting, unaware of how eerily perfect his words were. Sophie and Grant, the technical experts, set up their sound equipment, eager to capture spectral voices in the walls—though none dared admit how deeply they feared what they might actually hear.
The team set up their base in what had once been the manor’s grand dining room. The long banquet table was warped and cracked, its surface littered with dust and forgotten remnants of feasts long past. Sophie booted up her laptop, scrolling through archived reports of Galloway Manor’s history while the others unloaded their gear.
“This place has a reputation,” Sophie murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. “They say no one who stays longer than three nights ever leaves the same. Some say they don’t leave at all.”
Mitchell leaned in, intrigued. “Anything specific?”
“There’s a mix of stories,” she continued. “The original owner, Richard Galloway, was known for his obsession with séances. Some say he tried to summon his dead wife, but what came through wasn’t her. After that, the servants started disappearing. Then his daughter—she was found wandering the halls, babbling incoherently. She died a week later.”
“And the manor itself?” Olivia asked, her tone edged with unease.
Sophie exhaled, scanning deeper into the records. “It’s like the house is sentient. Every group that’s ever stayed here describes feeling watched, touched by something unseen. Some claim they heard voices whispering their names. And a few—well, the reports say they went completely insane.”
Darren scoffed. “You mean they imagined it?”
“I mean they were found clawing at the walls, tearing their own skin, begging to be let go,” Sophie corrected. “One man was found in the basement, curled into a ball, his nails ripped out. When they tried to talk to him, all he kept repeating was: ‘It’s inside me. It’s inside me.’”
A chill settled over the group. The wind outside howled, rattling the broken shutters, as if trying to warn them.
Mitchell pulled a map of the manor from his bag and spread it across the table. “We should explore before we jump to conclusions. There has to be a logical explanation for all this.”
The team split up, moving carefully through the decaying halls. The wallpaper, barely clinging to the walls, seemed to shift when they passed, curling as if recoiling from their presence. Darren documented everything, filming the corridors, the portraits with hollow-eyed figures whose gazes seemed to follow them. The house was silent, yet alive—a presence lurking beneath its stillness.
In one room, Olivia stopped abruptly. She ran her fingers over the rotted remains of a crib, her pulse hammering. “This was the nursery…” she murmured. “Galloway’s daughter slept here.”
Mitchell observed the tiny handprint smudged into the dust-covered glass of a nearby window—too fresh to be decades old.
They continued deeper into the house, moving toward the basement. As they descended, the air thickened, heavy with damp rot and something else—something rancid, something breathing.
Sophie hesitated at the threshold. “This is where they found him.”
Grant chuckled nervously, stepping forward. “Oh, come on. It’s just a basement—”
The door slammed shut behind them.
A gasp caught in Olivia’s throat. The walls seemed to pulse. The whispers began—soft, slithering, familiar.
Then, slowly, one by one, they realized—
The whispers were calling them by name.