Best Haunted House Novels Novels & Stories

I stayed silent. "The apartment where she had that accident was a company unit assigned to her," Stan said. "It's been empty ever since the accident. Later, the company wanted to take the place back, but the staff they sent over all got badly spooked. Over time, rumors that the place was haunted started to spread." He looked at me, his gaze sharpening. "But that changed when you showed up. When I first saw your rental address, I was shocked. I honestly thought you'd be running out of there in tears within three days. But you didn't.

Father Matthias shouted prayers outside while silver light flared weakly through the broken windows. Not enough. Nothing was enough anymore. The wards were gone. The prison was open. Something shrieked directly beside them. Alaric moved before Eleanor even registered the creature lunging through the dark. Silver flashed. A horrible tearing sound followed. Then blood hit the floor. Black. Smoking. The spirit collapsed at their feet in pieces. More came immediately. Tall shadowed bodies crawled through the hallways and across the ceilings, drawn toward the center of the house like starving animals scenting blood.

Damien drove the rogue down, one knee in its chest, claws at its throat. “Say another word to her,” he growled, “and I will remove your tongue.” The rogue smiled up at him. “You cannot stop a door once it knows her blood.” The journal fluttered in my hand. Pages snapping hard enough to sting. Words appeared. THE HOLLOW CALLS WHAT THE HOUSE WAKES. My mouth went dry. “Damien.” “I’m busy.” “The haunted book has an update.” “Not ideal timing.” “Shockingly, the book did not ask.”

If only it worked that way. As my consciousness faded, my soul felt yanked back—to that Halloween night that changed everything. Lights strung like jack-o'-lanterns, crowds surging like a river. I was gripping my little brother Matthew Duncan's hand—warm and soft—terrified that if I let go for even a second, the tide of people would swallow him up. But in the blink of an eye, a puppet-maker's stall caught his eye. He pointed at a fierce general figurine, bouncing with excitement. "Eli! I want that one! The general!"

A QUICK NOTE BEFORE GETTING THE STORY STARTED: Hey there everybody! Wanna know how this story goes? Well, picture Little Women's Jo March meets Ghost Adventures' Zak Bagans about her haunted house, and then she writes a novel about it. Don't know who the heck I'm talking about? Well, lets say this is the story of a young, independent girl used to dealing with things by herself, who is forced to turn for help to a not-so-young, far-from-humble TV celeb used to having always his way.

Then at the river. Because suddenly, it wasn’t the house that was haunted. It was her whole life.

She’d snuck into the forbidden library with a boy who didn’t speak much, who had bruises on his back and fire in his eyes. Ethan. And together, they’d read books that even the patriarchs feared to open. One of those books spoke of “The Heart of the House.” It remembers every blood that’s been spilled in its name. But none of the books said it was real. She thought it was symbolic. A metaphor for the darkness rooted in this land. Now she stood before it. And it was awake. Ethan’s face in the blood began to blur. At the same moment, the manor groaned. Not an earthquake—but something deeper. Like a beast shifting underground.

(Isabella’s POV) The safe house was a tomb, filled with the ghosts of a life that wasn't mine. Dust sheets covered the heavy, ornate furniture, and the air was thick with the stale, stagnant scent of time. The brutal, adrenaline fueled escape from Bianchi’s gala felt a world away, but the true horror of the night was just beginning to settle in my bones, a cold, creeping dread that no locked door could keep out.

He obviously heard when I had the nightmare, and maybe, just maybe I had mentioned Atticus’s name. I tried to navigate my thoughts back to the architecture of the house. What kind of house was crafted in such a weird way? Everything seemed off. The reflections doubled back on themself like it was deliberate, like something was hiding in plain sight. After I finished cleaning, I stayed tracing the glass, unsure of what exactly I was looking for. I wanted to stop, but I heard a faint hum behind like a vibration. Electronics. “Fuck.” I staggered back. What was happening? I leaned in to listen, but I heard footsteps.

Nothing happened, though, and relief instantly filled me. Every other time as soon as ink had gotten onto the page, I would be transported into the book. However, this time nothing happened, which might be because I hadn’t used the quill since the ink just spilled. No longer frozen, I recalled the knock on the door and rose from my desk. I was about to take a step when suddenly my living room dissolved into inky blackness. An inky blackness that had only been in a couple of times when the three musketeers of assholes paused my story. Which means I was in my book, 1001 Dark Tales. I instantly started praying that for once those three weren’t in the books with me. In the next second, I realize