Footprints and Faces at Prescott House

Footprints at Prescott House

It’s funny how you can go your whole life not believing in something until you experience it yourself. I never thought about ghosts or demons. To me, they were just the kind of stories people told to make people cringe, or maybe to scare them for fun. I used to roll my eyes when I saw things like that. But one night, in an old abandoned house in the Midwest, everything changed. It started like any other weekend adventure. My friend Josh and I had been to Prescott House once before. We had heard all the rumors about it: that no one had lived there in decades, that strange things happened in and around it, but when we explored it, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just an old dilapidated house. We had a good laugh and thought it would be fun to bring a group of friends there for a nighttime exploration. So, on a cold Friday night, we loaded up two cars and made the one-hour drive into the middle of nowhere. It was that night where the moon was bright enough to illuminate the streets, but everything else seemed dark, as if the earth itself had fallen asleep and only the cold wind was blowing. Our group was a typical mix: boys and girls in their twenties, all thrill seekers. We arrived armed with flashlights and a sense of adventure. None of us were afraid. Not yet, anyway.

When we got to Prescott House, I had to admit it was worse than I remembered. The place was aging, as if the years since our last visit had suddenly hit it. The windows were mostly broken or boarded up, and the paint on the walls was mostly peeling, leaving behind a weather-beaten shell of what could have been a great estate. He stood alone in a barren field, stretching to the horizon like a forgotten relic. Joshi and I went first, the others followed us. "Are you sure you want to do this?" someone behind me whispered. I just laughed, trying to shake the strange feeling that settled in my stomach. "Relax," I said, "it's just a house." »
We all flashed flashlights, the rays running through the darkness as we made our way to the front door. The wind whistled through the cracks in the walls and the sound of gravel crunching under our shoes seemed too loud in the stillness of the night. But we kept moving.
The door, swollen with damp and neglect, groaned loudly as we forced it open.
Inside, the air was thick and heavy, as if the house had trapped decades of dust and mold in its walls. I knew it as soon as I crossed the threshold: something was wrong. But I kept moving, pushing the thought to the back of my mind. Josh, still the first to drive, waved his flashlight, revealing the mess left by years of neglect. Pieces of the roof had fallen to the floor, with piles of leaves that had flown through the broken windows. There were cobwebs in every corner and the whole place smelled of damp wood and decay.
The narrow beams of the flashlight scanned the room, seeing old furniture covered in dust, walls with peeling wallpaper, and shadows that seemed to move as the light passed through them. Directly in front of us was a long hallway that stretched from the front door to the back of the house, like a spine running through his body. Each of our footsteps echoed faintly in the silence, almost as if the house was listening.
To the left of the hallway was something that gave us pause: a large room, the center of which was marked by a large, faded pentagram painted on the floor. Some of the group laughed nervously, but Josh and I exchanged glances. It wasn’t the last time we’d been here.
“Maybe it’s just a joke,” I said, still not convincing myself. Opposite this room, to our right, was a smaller, empty room that had a strange aura. It felt like someone - or something - was watching us, but there was nothing, just shadows lurking in the corner. Ahead, the grand spiral staircase ascends into the darkness of the second and third floors. Dust rose with each step, swirling in the torch beam like ghosts from the past.
"Let's go," Josh said, his voice a little too loud, as if trying to drown out the awkward silence. The rest of the group murmured their agreement and we headed for the stairs.
Every creak of wood under our feet made the house more alive, more menacing. As we climbed higher, the air became poisonous, the smell of the house oppressed me. I continued to scan the stairs with my flashlight, looking for signs of weakness—rolled wood or gaping holes. There was no need for anyone to fall. But as we climbed to the third floor, my anxiety only grew, as if something was waiting for us up there, slipping out of sight.
The third floor was worse than the rest of the house. Up there everything seemed a little more dilapidated, a little more forgotten, as if it had been left to rot even longer than the floors below. The air was even colder, as if the currents seeping through the cracks in the walls had made this floor their permanent home. Our torches scanned the faded wallpaper, which stood out from the walls in long wavy strips. A heavy silence fell upon us as we advanced, our steps obscured by a thick layer of dust covering everything.
The third floor had a strange layout: two rooms at the front of the house, two at the back and in the center, the largest of them all. Naturally we headed for the central room, curiosity drawing us inside. Passing through the door, the flashes of the flashlight revealed the center of the space: a large hole in the floor and ceiling. It seemed as if something had crashed through the house, leaving behind a perfect circle of destruction. Josh walked carefully to the edge of the hole as the torch beam penetrated the depths below. "Wow," he whispered, shining his light into space. The hole went through the house, from the roof to the basement. It was disturbing to see the boards so straight, as if the house had been wounded, its insides exposed.
"Looks like a meteor fell or something," I said, but no one answered. They all watched, their charges moving away as they traced the jagged edges of the hole. For a moment no one moved. We were all standing there, staring into the darkness, trying to figure out what was going on.
The more I looked, the more I felt something was staring back at me. I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the thought, and turned my attention to the graffiti written on the walls. Spray-painted symbols and messages that I couldn't make out in the dim light adorned the crumbling plaster, as if others had been there before us, trying to leave their mark on the house. But we did not feel alone. The silence was too thick, too artificial.
“We have to keep moving,” I said, trying to break the tension, my voice echoing slightly in the wide, empty room. Josh nodded, taking one last look at the depths of the abyss before leaving. We all silently agreed to put some distance between us and the ominous forum.
At the end of the third floor, the flashlights illuminated something else: another staircase, much narrower and much less imposing than the one we had climbed before. It was hidden behind a half-collapsed door, invisible unless you looked for it. The wood here was older, weaker, and the stairs were steep, disappearing into the darkness below. The air was even heavier, mustier, as if it hadn't moved in years. “It looks like the back stairs,” Josh said, his voice barely above a whisper. I nodded, the flashlight beam flashing along the crumbling railing. Unlike the grand staircase ahead, this one seemed narrow and claustrophobic, designed for people moving in the shadows, out of sight.
“Let’s go down,” I said, even as a knot formed in my stomach. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were entering a place we shouldn’t be. But we had come this far and there was no reason to turn back.
Josh led the way, and I followed close behind. The rest of the group followed us, one by one, flashing lights as we descended. The stairs creaked under our weight, each step echoing louder in the eerie silence. Deep down, the house seemed to growl in response, as if it didn't like our presence there. The back stairs led us to the back of the house and we came to a dark and dilapidated kitchen. We barely knew it as a kitchen: everything marched or broke. The cabinets were open, their doors hanging from their rusted hinges, and the counters were covered in scum. An old rusty sink sat in a corner, surrounded by piles of what looked like trash and broken dishes.
At the bottom of the stairs was a small vault that led to the last two steps that led to the kitchen itself. Cory, who was at the back of the pack, stood there with his flashlight pointed in the direction we had come from. He looked uncomfortable and couldn’t help but feel off. Something about this part of the house felt off, like we had crossed an invisible line that we weren’t supposed to cross.
As Josh and I began to talk to the group, ironically trying to add suspense by creating a backstory for the house, then it happened. Cut down.
The sound was soft at first, but unmistakable. A single heavy step came from the top of the stairs we had just descended.
Everyone froze, the flashlights immediately turned towards the stairs. I exchanged a quick glance with Josh, my heart pounding in my chest. Boom... boom... boom...
The noise grew louder, as if someone or something was descending the stairs, step by step. The air in the kitchen seemed frozen. I was panting when I turned to Cory, still standing in the doorway. He shone his lantern on the stairs, then turned to us, his face pale. He shrugged helplessly, as if to say that he had seen nothing.
But the steps continued.
Now it was impossible to ignore this noise, constant and deliberate. Boom... boom... boom. They were slow, heavy and getting closer with every step.
Nobody moves. We were all staring at the stairs, waiting for something—anything—to explain the noise. But nothing appeared. The tracks kept coming, going down towards us, as if what was doing them was right in front of us, invisible.
The closer the noise got, the more fear began to gnaw at my chest. My hand tightened around the flashlight as I scanned the shadows at the top of the stairs. The feeling of being watched, of being hunted, overwhelmed me, suffocated me.
"We have to get out of here," Josh said, his voice barely above a whisper, his face pale in the glow of the lantern.
No one protested.
Josh's words were all we needed. Everyone nodded, too afraid to speak. The steps keep coming, regular, uninterrupted. My heart pounded in my chest as we left the stairs, trying to stay calm even as panic began to set in.
As we left the kitchen, footsteps seemed to follow us, though neither of us expected to turn our heads. The noise was now incredibly close, as if what it was doing was only a few steps behind us. Boom... Boom... boom.
We quickly made our way across the first floor, trying to hold steady with our torches as they shivered on the debris covered floor. The hole in the center of the house seemed close, but we didn't have time to worry. We rounded the edge, the darkness below yawning above us, threatening to swallow us whole if we made a mistake. Behind us, the noise continued, louder, closer. I didn’t know how it was possible, but it seemed to me that the walls of the house were breathing, watching, waiting for us to make a mistake.
By the time we reached the front door, our controlled walk had turned into a sprint. Josh, who was leading the way, opened the door with a bang and we poured into the cold night air. My heart was pounding in my ears, my breath ragged, but the moment I felt the cool wind on my skin, a wave of relief washed over me. We didn't stop running until we got to the cars. Everyone piled into the car without a word, slamming the doors, turning the keys and buckling with their seat belts as if the house itself was trying to get us back inside. I jumped into the driver's seat, hands shaking as I turned the key in the ignition. The car screeched and I turned on the headlights.
I turned towards the house, now lit by the lanterns, and then I saw him. In the glow of the streetlights, the facade of the house stood out sharply against the night sky, its broken windows and crumbling walls illuminated by a harsh artificial light. But it wasn't the collapse of the house that froze me in place.
These are the faces.
They were watching us from the windows of the first, second, and third floors—pale figures who, I swear, had not been there moments before. I gasped, my fingers tightening on the steering wheel as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. He wasn’t alone—several others in the group stood gaping, pointing, eyes wide in horror.
The faces were not human. They were twisted, grotesque, like something out of a nightmare. Their mouths were open, frozen in silent screams that seemed to echo in the back of my mind even though I couldn’t hear a sound. Their skin was taut over sunken cheekbones, and their eyes—oh god, their eyes—were dark, empty voids that seemed to sink into us, watching our every move. Some were shaking and jumping, their heads turned slowly, almost jokingly, as if they were laughing at us. Their mouths opened and closed suddenly, as if they wanted to bite something, the movement was strangely similar to that of a dog gnashing its teeth. It was far worse than anything I could have imagined.
"No way," someone whispered, their voice trembling, barely audible over the sound of my heart pounding in my chest.
My hands were shaking on the wheel, my foot was freezing on the brake. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to move, to get away from these faces. And yet, for a second, I find myself trapped, unable to tear my eyes away from the grotesque and twisted faces staring back at us.
Then Josh's voice cut through the fog of fear. "Come on!" Go ahead! »
That got me out of here. I stepped on the gas and the car lurched backwards onto the road. I barely noticed the other car following us, headlights flashing as we drove down the dirt road, leaving the house—and those horrible faces—behind us.
We didn't stop until we got back to Josh's house and sat on the road. Even then we barely spoke. Everyone was silent, the only sound in the car was the familiar breathing of the people around me, each of us trying to make sense of what we saw.
I looked in the rearview mirror, half expecting to see those faces following us, but the road behind us was empty. As we walked from the car to the house, the experience seemed more and more surreal with each step, like something out of a dream or a nightmare. But the pounding in my chest, the sweat on my palms told me it was all real.
We didn’t talk much after that. After an hour, we each went our separate ways, desperate to put some distance between ourselves and what we had seen. We never returned to Prescott House, and neither of us suggested that we should. Just thinking about it made us nauseous.
That night changed something in me. First, I didn't believe in ghosts or demons or anything like that. I think the people who told these stories were exaggerating, trying to scare others for fun. But after what we saw, after those faces in the window and those footsteps that followed us down the stairs, I can't live without him. What was in that house was not human. It wasn't something that could be explained. And now years have passed, but I still think about it sometimes. When I'm alone, or when the night is very quiet, I can almost hear those footsteps again - boom... boom... thump - and I wonder if maybe, just maybe, what she had in that house is still there, waiting for someone else to walk through her door.

By Omnipotent