A trembling male voice reported hearing disturbing noises coming from the old abandoned house at the end of his street. He couldn’t describe exactly what it was — groaning, scratching, and what sounded like a faint whisper — but he begged the officers to come immediately.
Minutes later, a patrol car and a police dog arrived on scene.
The house looked ready to collapse — broken windows, a rusted gate, and walls covered in mold. It was the kind of place that made you feel uneasy the moment you looked at it. But as soon as the officers stepped inside, the air grew heavy and cold. Everything was silent, yet the silence felt alive — almost as if the house itself was listening.
The dog suddenly froze. Its fur stood on end, and it began to growl toward the center of the living room. The lead officer approached cautiously, his flashlight shaking slightly in his hand. The floorboards were cracked, and in one spot there was a hole — dark and deep, as if the earth had opened its mouth right there.
He knelt down and pointed his light inside.
What he saw made his stomach turn.
At the bottom of the pit lay dozens of old dolls — dusty, broken, with glass eyes missing and porcelain faces shattered. Around them were small shoes, torn pieces of children’s clothing, and faded photographs of boys and girls.
The air that came from the hole smelled of rot and something metallic — like dried blood.
Then, from the darkness, came a sound.
Soft at first — a rustle, a faint movement. The dog barked wildly, and the ground seemed to tremble slightly beneath them. Suddenly, a hand shot up from the hole — pale, filthy, bony, clutching at the edge of the floorboards.
The officers jumped back, weapons drawn, as a shape began to emerge.
It was a woman — thin, covered in dirt, her hair matted, her face ghostly pale. Her lips quivered as she tried to speak.
“Help me…” she rasped. “He’s still down there…”
They rushed her to the hospital. Doctors confirmed she’d been held captive for weeks, maybe longer. When she regained consciousness, she could only repeat one phrase over and over: “There are more of them under the house.”
A rescue team returned the next morning to dig deeper. What they found was beyond comprehension — rusted chains, skeletal remains, and strange symbols painted across the cellar walls in what looked like blood.
Records showed that the house had once belonged to a man named Edward K., a toymaker who had gone missing years earlier after the death of his young daughter. Neighbors recalled how, before he vanished, he used to talk to his dolls and dig holes in his backyard at night. They thought he’d simply gone insane.
On the attic floor, investigators discovered a small wooden chest. Inside lay a journal. The pages were filled with unsteady handwriting — ramblings about souls trapped in toys and children who can live again.
One chilling line stood out among the rest:
“When the laughter returns, I will return too.”
The property was declared unsafe, and demolition was ordered. But the construction crew never finished the job. One worker swore he heard a child crying in the basement at night. Another said he saw a faint light flicker under the cracked floorboards. By the following week, none of them would go near the place.
Now the lot stands empty — overgrown with weeds, silent except for the wind.
But people in the neighborhood still whisper that if you pass by after midnight, you can hear the creak of footsteps, the giggle of a child, and a voice echoing faintly from beneath the ground:
— “Help me… he’s back…”