Uninvited

Martin Cole, an earnest life insurance agent, was always thorough with his appointments.

When he got a promising lead from a potential client in a secluded area, he was determined to

make a solid impression.

The address led him down a maze of neglected backroads to a grand, albeit neglected, manor cloaked in

dense ivy and shadowed by old trees.

Checking his notes and assuming the dilapidated state of the house was the reason behind the client’s interest

in life insurance, Martin confidently walked up to the weathered front door.

An elderly woman answered, her frame stooped and her hair a wild tangle of gray.

Her eyes, milky with age, squinted suspiciously.

“Did they send you about the whispers?” she rasped, her voice echoing in the cavernous hallway.

Baffled but eager to secure a new policy, Martin nodded.

“Yes, I’m here to address your concerns.

May I come in?” He mistook her cryptic query for anxiety about estate planning—a common issue for insurance

clients—he thought.

The interior of the house was like stepping into another era, filled with heavy drapes and ancient furniture,

the air thick with the scent of must and mildew.

They sat down in a dimly lit living room, where the woman kept darting anxious looks toward the

darkened corners of the room.

“I’d like to discuss your options for life insurance,” Martin began, pulling out brochures from his briefcase.

“There’s no need for that now,” she whispered, her gaze fixed on something behind Martin.

“It’s too late.

They’ve already claimed this place.” Feeling a chill, Martin turned to look over his shoulder, seeing only the

flickering shadows from the fireplace.

When he turned back, the woman was staring past him, her face pale and drawn.

“You should leave.

Now,” she urged, her voice trembling.

“Before they notice you too.” Confused and unnerved, Martin quickly gathered his materials, the eerie feeling in the

house urging him to depart swiftly.

As he hurried out, he glanced back at the house from the safety of his car, and that’s

when he noticed the mailbox by the gate—the address was not the one he had been given.

He had gone to the wrong house.

His heart pounding, Martin drove away, glancing in his rearview mirror.

The sight of the old woman standing in the window watching him leave, her expression one of mournful

warning, made him shiver.

When he finally looked at the lead's correct address on his GPS, a realization dawned on him—the house

he was meant to visit didn’t exist on any map.

The coordinates led right back to the eerie manor he had just fled.