Chevy Chevelle | Illustrated Fiction

The full moon hung high above the old mansion on White Oak Drive. It cast an eerie glow on the broken windows and sagging porch. A black Chevy Chevelle was parked nearby, its chrome reflecting the pale light.

Detective Sam Carter stood at the gate, staring at the house. He had been tracking strange disappearances around town for weeks, and all signs had led him here. The house had a reputation—people entered, but never returned.

He pushed open the creaking gate and walked toward the front door. The silence around him was thick, as though the house itself was holding its breath. Inside, the air was heavy with dust. The floorboards groaned under his weight, each step feeling like an intrusion.

Then, he heard it: a faint whisper. Soft, but unmistakable. "Help me."

His heart skipped. He followed the sound, which seemed to come from the basement. The stairs were narrow, cold, the air growing colder with every step. At the bottom, he saw her—standing in the corner, her back turned.

"Please, help me," she murmured.

When she turned, her face was gone. Where it should have been, there was only darkness—an empty shadow.

The house groaned, the walls seeming to shift. Carter felt a chill race up his spine. Before he could react, the darkness swallowed him whole.

The next morning, the Chevelle was still parked outside. But there was no sign of Carter. The mansion stood silent, its secrets hidden, waiting for the next soul to wander too close.

Fin.