The Footsteps 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 much about ghosts or demons. To me, they were just the kind of stories people told to get a rise out of others, or maybe to scare themselves for fun. I used to roll my eyes at that stuff. But one night, in an old abandoned house out in the Midwest, that all changed.

It started like any other weekend adventure. My friend Josh and I had been to Prescott House once before. We’d heard all the rumors about it—how no one had lived there for decades, how strange things happened in and around the place, but when we explored it, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just an old, crumbling house. We had a few laughs about it and thought it would be fun to bring a group of our friends back for a late-night exploration.

So, on a chilly Friday night, we packed up two cars and made the hour-long drive to the middle of nowhere. It was the kind of night where the moon was bright enough to light the roads, but everything else felt dark—like the land itself had fallen asleep, and only the cold wind moved. Our group was your typical mix—guys and girls in their early twenties, all looking for a thrill. We came armed with flashlights and a sense of adventure. None of us were scared. Not yet, anyway.

When we pulled up to Prescott House, even I had to admit it looked worse than I remembered. The place had aged, as if the years since we’d last been there had hit it all at once. The windows were mostly shattered or boarded up, and the paint on the walls had almost entirely peeled away, leaving behind a weather-beaten shell of what once might’ve been a grand estate. It stood alone in a barren field, looming against the horizon like a forgotten relic.

Josh and I got out first, the others following. "Are you sure about this?" someone muttered behind me. I just chuckled, trying to shrug off the eerie feeling that had settled in my stomach. "Relax," I said, "It’s just a house."

We all clicked on our flashlights, the beams cutting through the darkness as we moved toward the front door. The wind whistled through the cracks in the walls, and the sound of crunching gravel under our shoes seemed far too loud in the stillness of the night. But we pushed on.

The door, swollen with moisture and neglect, groaned loudly as we forced it open.

Inside, the air was thick and heavy, like the house had trapped decades of dust and mildew within its walls. I felt it the moment I stepped through the threshold—something wasn’t right. But I kept moving, pushing that thought to the back of my mind. Josh, always the first to lead, waved his flashlight around, revealing the mess left behind by years of abandonment. Bits of ceiling had fallen to the floor, along with piles of leaves that had somehow blown in through the broken windows. Cobwebs draped from every corner, and the whole place smelled of damp wood and decay.

The narrow beams of our flashlights swept across the room, catching glimpses of old furniture covered in dust, walls with peeling wallpaper, and shadows that seemed to shift as the light passed over 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 its body. Every step we took echoed faintly in the quiet, almost like the house was listening to us.

To the left of the hallway was something that made us pause: a large room, its center marked by a huge, faded pentagram painted on the floor. Some of the group laughed nervously at it, but Josh and I exchanged a look. That hadn’t been there the last time we came.

"Probably just some prank," I said, not even convincing myself.

Opposite that room, to our right, was a smaller, empty room that gave off an odd vibe. I felt like someone—or something—was watching us, but there was nothing there, just shadows playing tricks in the corners. Just ahead, the grand staircase spiraled upward into the darkness of the second and third floors. Dust kicked up with every step, swirling in the beam of my flashlight like ghosts of the past.

"Let’s go up," Josh said, his voice a little too loud, like he was trying to drown out the uneasy silence. The rest of the group muttered their agreement, and we made our way to the staircase.

Every creak of the wood beneath our feet made the house feel more alive, more menacing. As we moved higher, the air grew colder, the stale scent of the house more oppressive. I kept scanning the stairs with my flashlight, looking for any signs of weakness—rotting wood or gaping holes. It wouldn’t do to have someone fall through. But as we climbed to the third floor, my unease only grew, as if something was waiting for us up there, lurking just out of sight.

The third floor was worse than the rest of the house. Up there, everything seemed just a little more decayed, a little more forgotten, as though it had been left to rot even longer than the floors below. The air was colder too, like the drafts slipping in through the cracks in the walls had made this floor their permanent home. Our flashlights swept over the faded wallpaper, which peeled away from the walls in long, curling strips. A heavy silence pressed down on us as we moved forward, our footsteps muffled by a layer of dust that had settled thickly over 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 room of all. We naturally gravitated toward the central room, our curiosity pulling us in. As we stepped through the doorway, our flashlights revealed the centerpiece of the space—a massive, gaping hole in both the floor and ceiling. It looked as though something had crashed straight through the house, leaving a perfect circle of destruction in its wake.

Josh walked cautiously to the edge of the hole, his flashlight beam piercing down into the depths below. "Whoa," he whispered, shining his light all the way down through the gap. The hole went straight through the house, from the roof down to the basement. It was unsettling, seeing straight through the floors like that, as though the house had been wounded, its insides exposed.

"It looks like a meteorite or something fell through," I said, but no one responded. Everyone else was just staring, flashlights bobbing as they traced the jagged edges of the hole. For a moment, no one moved. We all just stood there, peering down into the darkness below, trying to make sense of it.

The longer I looked, the more I felt like something was looking back. I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the thought, and turned my attention to the graffiti scrawled across the walls. Spray-painted symbols and messages I couldn’t make out in the dim light decorated the crumbling plaster, as though others had come here before us, trying to leave their own mark on the house. But it didn’t feel like we were alone. The quiet was too thick, too unnatural.

"We should keep moving," I said, trying to break the tension, my voice echoing slightly in the vast, empty room. Josh nodded, casting one last glance down into the abyss before turning away. We all silently agreed to put some distance between us and the unsettling hole.

At the back of the third floor, our flashlights illuminated something else—another staircase, much narrower and far less grand than the one we’d climbed before. It was tucked away behind a half-collapsed door, hidden from view unless you were looking for it. The wood here was older, more fragile, and the stairs were steep, disappearing into darkness below. The air was heavier here, too—mustier, like it hadn’t been disturbed in years.

"Looks like the servants' stairs," Josh said, his voice barely above a whisper. I nodded, my flashlight beam flickering along the rickety banister. Unlike the grand staircase in the front, this one felt cramped and claustrophobic, designed for people who moved in the shadows, out of sight.

"Let’s head down," I said, though a knot had formed in my stomach. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were trespassing somewhere we weren’t supposed to be. But we had come this far, and there was no sense in turning back now.

Josh led the way, with me just behind him. The rest of the group filed in after us, one by one, flashlights bouncing as we made our descent. The stairs creaked under our weight, each step sounding louder in the eerie silence. The deeper we went, the more the house seemed to groan in response, as though it didn’t like us being here.

The servants' staircase brought us down to the back of the house, and we emerged into a dark, decrepit kitchen. It was barely recognizable as a kitchen anymore—everything was rotting or falling apart. The cabinets hung open, their doors sagging from rusted hinges, and the counters were coated in grime. An old, rusted sink sat in one corner, surrounded by piles of what looked like debris and broken dishes.

At the base of the staircase, there was a small turn, leading to two final steps that dropped down into the kitchen itself. Cory, who had been bringing up the rear, stood there, flashlight aimed back up the way we had come. He seemed uneasy, and I couldn’t blame him. Something about this part of the house felt wrong—like we had crossed an invisible line we shouldn’t have.

As Josh and I started talking to the group trying to ironically add suspense by fabricating a backstory to the house. Then, it happened.

Thump.

The sound was soft at first, but unmistakable. A single, heavy footstep coming from the top of the stairs we had just descended.

We all froze, flashlights immediately turning toward the staircase. I exchanged a quick look with Josh, my heart starting to pound in my chest.

Thump... thump... thump...

The sound grew louder, as though someone—or something—was making its way down the stairs, one step at a time. The air in the kitchen seemed to freeze. My breath caught in my throat as I turned to Cory, still standing in the doorway. He shined his flashlight up the stairs, then turned to us, his face pale. He shrugged helplessly, as if to say he didn’t see anything.

But the footsteps kept coming.

The sound was impossible to ignore now, steady and deliberate. Thump... thump... thump. They were slow, heavy, and growing closer with each step.

Nobody moved. We were all staring at the staircase, waiting for something—anything—to explain the noise. But nothing appeared. The footsteps kept coming, descending toward us as though whatever was making them was right there in front of us, invisible.

The closer the sound got, the more the fear began to claw at my chest. My hand tightened around my flashlight as I scanned the shadows at the top of the stairs. The feeling of being watched—of being hunted—pressed in on me, suffocating.

"We need to get out of here," Josh said, his voice barely more than a whisper, his face pale under the glow of his flashlight.

No one argued.

Josh’s words were all we needed. Everyone nodded, too afraid to speak. The footsteps were still coming—steady, relentless. My heart hammered in my chest as we turned away from the staircase, trying to keep calm, though panic was beginning to creep in.

As we filed out of the kitchen, the footsteps seemed to follow us, though none of us dared to look back. The sound was impossibly close now, as if whatever was making it was just a few steps behind us. Thump... thump... thump.

We moved quickly through the first floor, trying to keep our flashlights steady as they flickered across the debris-covered floor. The hole in the center of the house loomed nearby, but we didn’t have time to worry about it. We skirted around the edge, the darkness below yawning up at us, threatening to swallow us whole if we made a wrong step.

Behind us, the thudding continued—closer, louder. I didn’t know how it was possible, but it felt like the very walls of the house were breathing, watching, waiting for us to slip up.

By the time we reached the front door, our controlled walk had turned into a full sprint. Josh, who was leading the way, yanked the door open with a crash, and we spilled out into the cold night air. My heart was pounding in my ears, my breaths coming in ragged gasps, but the moment I felt the cold wind on my skin, a wave of relief washed over me.

We didn’t stop running until we reached the cars. Everyone piled in without a word, slamming doors, turning keys, and fumbling with seatbelts as though the house itself might try to drag us back inside. I dove into the driver’s seat, my hands shaking as I turned the key in the ignition. The car roared to life, and I turned on the headlights.

I looked back to the house, now illuminated by the headlights, and that’s when I saw them.

In the glow of the headlights, the front of the house stood out starkly against the night sky, its broken windows and crumbling walls illuminated in harsh, unnatural light. But it wasn’t the decay of the house that froze me in place.

It was the faces.

They stared down at us from the first, second, and third floor windows—pale figures that I swear hadn’t been there moments before. My breath caught in my throat, my fingers tightening on the steering wheel as I tried to process what I was seeing. I wasn’t alone—several others in the group gasped, pointing, their eyes wide with horror.

The faces weren’t human. They were twisted, grotesque, like something out of a nightmare. Their mouths were wide 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 stretched tight over hollowed-out cheekbones, and their eyes—oh God, their eyes—were dark, empty voids that seemed to bore into us, watching our every move.

Some of them twitched and jerked, their heads turning slowly, almost playfully, as if mocking us. Their mouths snapped open and shut, like they were trying to bite at something, the motion unnervingly similar to a dog chomping its teeth. It was so much worse than anything I had ever imagined.

"No way," someone whispered, their voice shaking, barely audible over the sound of my heart pounding in my chest.

My hands were trembling on the steering wheel, my foot frozen on the brake. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to move, to get away from those faces. And yet, for a second, I was trapped—unable to look away from those grotesque, twisted visages staring down at us.

Then, Josh’s voice cut through the fog of fear. "Go! Just go!"

That snapped me out of it. My foot slammed on the gas, and the car lurched backwards and out onto the road. I barely noticed the other car following behind us, headlights bouncing as we sped down the dirt road, leaving the house—and those awful faces—behind.

We didn’t stop until we were back to Josh’s place, and sat in the driveway. Even then, we barely spoke. Everyone was silent, the only sound in the car the labored breathing of the people around me, each of us trying to process what we had just witnessed.

I glanced in the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see those faces following us, but the road behind us was empty. As we walked from the cars to the house, whole experience felt more and more surreal with every step —like it was something out of a dream, or a nightmare. But the pounding in my chest, the sweat on my palms, told me that it had been all too real.

We didn’t talk about it much after that. Within the hour, everyone went their separate ways, desperate to put distance between themselves and whatever we had seen. We never went back to Prescott House, and none of us ever even suggested it. The thought alone was enough to make my stomach turn.

That night changed something in me. Before, I didn’t believe in ghosts, demons, or any of that. I used to think people who told those stories were just exaggerating, trying to scare themselves for fun. But after what we saw, after those faces in the windows and those footsteps that followed us down the stairs—I can’t just shrug it off anymore.

Whatever was in that house, it wasn’t human. It wasn’t something you could explain away. And it’s been years now, but I still think about it sometimes. When I’m alone, or when the night is too quiet, I can almost hear those footsteps again—thump... thump... thump—and I wonder if maybe, just maybe, whatever was in that house is still out there, waiting for someone else to step through its door.