The House That Summons Storms

The house on Carver Hill loomed at the edge of town, set apart from the safety of light and sound. It stood where the cracked road met the twisted trees, and those trees bent inward, almost protectively, casting the house in a shadow so dark that even the bravest souls hesitated to approach. The house seemed alive, pulsing with an eerie energy, and over time, townsfolk learned to steer clear of it. When they did talk about it, they did so in whispers, lowering their voices as if the house itself might be listening.

Strangest of all, the house was cursed with storms. Not just any storms—violent, relentless tempests that began without warning, striking the house with lightning so fierce it illuminated the dark windows like the eyes of a predator. Thunder exploded with a fury that shook the ground, rattling the bones of anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby. And in each strike, a shadow seemed to linger—a figure almost, stretching through the white-hot blaze of each flash. It was only a trick of the light, or so the townspeople told themselves.

They called him *the man in the lightning*, a dark figure tied to that house like a prisoner. Some said he was a spirit bound to the storms; others believed he was trying to escape something worse, something that kept him tethered to that cursed place.

Then Ellen Moreau and her daughter Lily moved in, oblivious to the legend. Ellen, a painter and single mother, had dreamed of finding a quiet retreat where she could focus on her work and give her daughter a fresh start. She didn’t mind the house’s eerie reputation. If anything, she thought the remote quiet would make for a unique experience, an opportunity to find new inspiration. She dismissed the whispered warnings of locals who offered weak smiles and reluctant farewells. But eight-year-old Lily was different. She had a wild, vivid imagination and a tendency to sense things others overlooked.

“Do you think there’s a ghost here?” she asked her mother that first night as they sat in the dim living room. Ellen only laughed, brushing off her daughter’s question, and for a brief time, the house seemed almost welcoming, like any other place.

That first week, however, a storm came in with the night. The day had been clear, and the setting sun warm, but by midnight, thunder cracked overhead so loud it seemed to split the sky. Wind howled through the trees, rattling the windows, and lightning illuminated the yard in blinding flashes, the shadows stretching and twisting as if in pain.

Lily bolted upright in her bed, heart pounding as she clutched her worn stuffed bunny. Her eyes darted to the window, where each flash showed dark shapes crawling across the floor and ceiling. At first, she thought it was her imagination. Then she thought of the whispers she had overheard in town, the hushed warnings about the house. The man in the lightning, she remembered. They had mentioned him.

Shaking, she ran down the hall and into her mother’s room. Ellen, half asleep, pulled Lily under the covers. She tried to calm her daughter with soothing words, whispering that storms were only storms. But as the thunder raged outside and lightning crashed so close it shook the walls, even Ellen couldn’t ignore the strangeness of it. With each strike, she glimpsed strange shadows moving just outside the windows—long, dark shapes that seemed to shift and blend with the night. It was as if something watched them, waiting for just the right moment to draw closer.

The storms continued. Every night they returned, louder and angrier, the lightning closer than ever before, striking so near that the hairs on their arms lifted with the electric charge. It wasn’t long before Lily began dreading sundown, her fear of the lightning growing as the nights passed. Each time she flinched at the flashes, pressing her face into her bunny, feeling as though the storm itself were hunting her, her mother tried to comfort her, though she too felt the house’s silent menace.

One night, Ellen woke to find Lily missing from her bed. She wandered the house, calling softly for her daughter, her voice lost beneath the relentless pounding of the rain. Her search led her to the attic, a room she had barely noticed before. It was damp and cold, filled with the stale scent of decay and a feeling that prickled her skin. Dust clung to every surface, and in the corner, an ancient blackened candle sat on a windowsill, half-burnt, with faint fingerprints in its wax. Ellen touched it lightly, and a chill ran through her as if she had touched something far older, something that had been waiting for her.

She swept Lily up in her arms, carrying her out of the attic as quickly as possible. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—had watched them. The next day, Ellen drove into town, determined to learn what she could about the house’s history. After a few hesitant questions, an elderly man named Ira finally spoke up, his voice a tense whisper as he avoided meeting her gaze.

“There was a man who lived there once,” he said. “Samuel Grant. People said he was quiet, kept to himself, but there were rumors. He was known to dabble in things best left alone.” Ira hesitated, then leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper. “One night, lightning struck the house during one of his rituals. They found him in the attic, burnt and twisted… They say his spirit got caught up in the storm.”

Ellen left, her mind whirling, convinced she had made a terrible mistake. Still, she told herself it was nonsense—old superstitions from a small town, nothing more. Yet every night, the storms grew worse, building with each passing hour, the lightning flaring closer, brighter, and the shadows around the house moving like figures in the dark.

She decided that they would leave. But the storm that night came harder and faster than she’d ever seen. The first crash of thunder jolted them awake, and Ellen found herself running through the darkened halls, calling for Lily. The lightning struck so close that she could see the blinding flare behind her closed eyes. Her skin prickled, her heart raced, and she felt as if something was breathing down her neck.

She found Lily in the attic, standing by the window, staring out into the storm with wide, terrified eyes.

“Lily!” Ellen gasped, rushing forward. But her daughter didn’t move, transfixed by something outside.

“Mom,” Lily whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind. “Look.”

Ellen turned, her gaze falling on the window. There, in a flash of lightning, stood the figure of a man, his face hollow and twisted, his eyes blazing like embers. He stood perfectly still, watching them with a cold, piercing gaze that reached beyond the glass, beyond the storm, and into the very heart of the attic.

In the next burst of lightning, his face grew clearer, blackened and charred, his mouth stretched into a twisted snarl. His eyes, empty and wide, seemed to burn with a terrible hunger. He didn’t move, but Ellen could feel him closing in, as if the storm itself were drawing him nearer.

With a scream, she grabbed Lily, pulling her from the window as the lightning flared. They stumbled down the stairs, but the house itself seemed to protest their escape. The walls groaned, the floorboards buckled, and every step forward felt as if they were wading through thick, oppressive air. A whisper, low and menacing, seeped out from the walls, weaving through the storm.

“Lily…” the voice hissed, twisting around them like smoke. It dragged out the syllables, wrapping itself around her name, filling the air with an otherworldly menace. “Lily…”

Ellen pulled Lily close, but each time they neared the door, a crash of thunder shook the house, driving them back. It was as though the storm itself was alive, trapping them, holding them in place. Lightning flashed again, and in that blinding moment, Ellen saw him—standing just a few feet away, his face split by a wide, inhuman grin, his hollow eyes staring straight into hers.

They ran into the storm, tearing through the mud and wind, neither daring to look back. But Lily glanced over her shoulder, just once, as they fled down the hill, and she saw him. Standing in the attic window, his charred face watching, his eyes bright as flame, his hand pressed against the glass as if reaching for her.

The next day, the townspeople found the house empty, though Ellen’s car was still parked in the drive. On the porch sat Lily’s stuffed bunny, damp and forgotten, and in the kitchen lay a single note, scribbled hastily, the ink smudged by rain.

It read: “We couldn’t escape him. The man in the lightning.”

Since then, the house on Carver Hill has remained empty, the townsfolk avoiding it even on sunny days. And on stormy nights, those who pass by can still see a shadow in the attic window, watching, waiting, his face twisted with the fury of a man trapped between life and death, forever bound to the lightning that cursed him.