Terror at the Congdon Manson

It was 1972, the summer of dead heat and endless boredom, when three boys—Dan, Rick, and Eddie—wandered into a part of town they’d always been warned about. The Congdon Mansion had been standing at the edge of the woods for as long as anyone could remember, a dark hulk of decaying wood and crumbling stone that seemed to sag under the weight of its own misery. The local kids whispered about it, claimed it was haunted. But these three were growing older, bolder, and, on that day, reckless.

The mansion’s grounds stretched out like a scar on the landscape, overgrown with weeds, half-dead trees looming like gnarled fingers reaching for something long buried. It was at the edge of this twisted garden that they found it—a grave marker, half-sunk into the earth like it had been waiting to be discovered.

Dan saw it first, kicking aside the brambles with the toe of his sneaker. “Guys, check this out,” he called, his voice cracking just a little, betraying more curiosity than fear. Rick and Eddie crowded around him, peering at the stone.

The marker was old, so old that the edges of the letters had eroded, but the inscription was still clear enough to read. Rick traced the letters with a shaking finger, mouthing the words as he went.

“Here lies three witches of the most vile making,” he muttered. “Executed for their unholy acts of demonic witchcraft.”

The words hung in the humid air like a bad smell. Eddie snorted, trying to shake the tension. “Witches,” he scoffed, though his voice was tight. “It’s probably some prank from back in the day. You know, scare the town kids.”

But none of them laughed. Something about the marker felt wrong, like it had a weight to it that pressed down on their chests. They stood in silence, reading the rest of the inscription: The Conjuring of ancient evil on these very grounds.

And then, as if the air itself had grown colder, they felt it—a presence. The boys looked at each other, their wide eyes saying what they couldn’t. They were being watched.

“We should go,” Dan finally whispered, his voice barely audible. “Now.”

They turned and left, their footsteps quickening as they pushed through the overgrowth. They didn’t speak of what they’d seen, didn’t even mention the grave marker again that day. But none of them slept well that night, their minds replaying the chilling inscription over and over, as if the words themselves were trying to crawl into their thoughts.

The first strange thing happened to Rick. He was helping his dad in the garage, something they did most Saturdays. Routine. Safe. But this time, as Rick reached for a wrench, the heavy toolbox on the workbench above him tipped over on its own. His dad saw the whole thing, yelling just in time for Rick to dive out of the way as the box crashed down, scattering tools everywhere. His dad cursed, thinking it was Rick’s clumsiness, but Rick knew better. The box hadn’t slipped. It had been pushed.

Then it was Dan’s turn. His bicycle, the same one he’d ridden for years, suddenly locked up while he was coasting down the hill by his house. The front wheel stopped dead, as if something invisible had reached out and grabbed it. Dan flew over the handlebars, hitting the pavement hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. His arm was scraped raw, but it wasn’t the pain that scared him. It was the fact that, just before the crash, he could have sworn he saw something flicker at the edge of his vision—something black and shapeless.

Eddie didn’t talk about what happened to him, not for a long time. But when he did, his voice was quiet, hollow. He’d woken up one night, unable to move. His room was pitch dark, but there was a figure standing at the foot of his bed—tall, cloaked, its face hidden in shadow. It leaned over him, and though it made no sound, Eddie could feel its breath on his face, could smell the rot. Then, just as he thought he would scream, the figure was gone.

The boys didn’t need to talk to each other to know what was happening. They could feel it, a tightening in the air, a heaviness that followed them like a shadow. They were being haunted. Marked by something they had disturbed at the Congdon Mansion. Something ancient. Something evil.

Their families noticed the change in them—how their laughter had vanished, how they jumped at every creak of the floor or rustle of the wind. But when the boys tried to explain, their parents waved it off as childish fears. “You’ve been watching too many horror shows,” Dan’s mother said with a smile, though there was a flicker of concern in her eyes.

But the boys knew better. They weren’t imagining it. They could feel the malevolence surrounding them, waiting for the right moment to strike. Every night, their dreams twisted into nightmares, grotesque figures crawling from the shadows, whispering dark promises into their ears. And every morning, they woke up more exhausted than before, the line between sleep and waking blurring as the days stretched on.

They returned to the mansion once, hoping to undo what they’d started. But the grave marker was gone. The earth where it had been was undisturbed, as if it had never existed. Yet, the boys knew it had. They felt it in their bones. The curse had taken root, and there was no escaping it.

Whether they would break free or fall deeper into the nightmare remained to be seen. But one thing was certain: the witches buried beneath the Congdon Mansion had risen, and they weren’t going to rest anytime soon.

Fictional story based on true events.