The Curse of Willowbrook: An American Horror Story Clone

At the end of Maple Street in the tranquil suburban community of Willowbrook, stood an ordinary home. Although nobody discussed its past, everyone in the neighborhood felt something was wrong with it. Nobody cautioned Sarah and Michael, the young couple who bought the property, about its past. Unaware that the property had sinister secrets, the couple had left the metropolis eager to start over in the little village.

Not long after she moved home, Sarah discovered an ancient, dusty box with odd markings buried in the attic. Inside were traces of an unusual ceremony: candles, ancient incense, and a worn-out book penned in a language she couldn identify. Curious and fascinated, Sarah decided later that evening to show Michael the objects.

Sarah and Michael sat in the living room sorting the box that evening. Sarah came into what seemed to be directions for an unusual ceremony. She said, half-seriously suggested they do it in order to "bless" their new house, "This could be fun." Often a skeptic, Michael rolled his eyes but agreed to entertain her.

They set the incense ablaze, followed the directions, and read the few intelligible sentences from the old book. They ignited the candles. The temperature in the room fell drastically and the flames on the candles flickered, creating long, spooky shadows on the walls as Sarah sung the words. Though Michael dismissed it as a draft from the ancient windows, they both sensed an unusual vitality sweep across the room.

There was a knock on the door right away.

Startled, the pair halted. Late it was, and they had no one expected. Michael stood up and opened the door warily. Everyone was absent. Uncertain, he turned back but the street was empty. He closed the door closing it behind him. Turning back toward Sarah, he saw something unusual: her eyes were wide, fixed on something behind him.

" Michael..." Sarah murmured, her voice quivering.

He turned gradually to find what had scared her. Perched at the doorway was a tall, skinny woman wearing an ancient, frayed gown. Her mouth opened to a twisted smile, her face pallid, her eyes sunken. She carried one of the candles from their ceremony; the flame burned a deep, unnatural blue.

The lady rasped, her voice booming across the room like a far-off storm, "you called for me." "You called me; now your debt has to be paid."

As the woman's presence appeared to draw the warmth and light out of the room, the temperature dropped yet further. Frozen in place, Michael sought understanding of what was occurring. "Who is it? His voice quivering, he said, what do you want?

Her feet almost touching the earth, the lady moved forward. She said, "I am bound to this house," then "now, so are you."

Fear paralyzing Sarah attempted to talk but no words emerged. The figure's smile became wider, her presence getting more stifling by the second. "Your ritual awakened something you cannot escape," she said. "You sought a bless; all that lives here is a curse."

The candles went out suddenly, darkening the room. The woman's brilliant, empty eyes produced the only light. Sarah and Michael battled for the door, but their efforts would not move it no matter how hard they pulled. She had caught them in the house.

The woman raised her hand as she progressed, and the air thickened with a choking cold. "This house was never yours," she said, "it belongs to the dead."

The walls started to pulsate, moaning as though they were alive. Shadows wriggled and stretched about the lovers like live tentacles. Sarah felt her heart hammer in her chest and her breath become short. Tears flooding her cheeks, she implored, "Please, let us go."

But the woman's smile just got more pronounced. "You wanted a fresh start," she replied with a venomous voice. "Today you will join those who came before you... permanently."

The sound of the front door slamming behind Sarah and Michael locked them into the lifetime hold of the house.

Maple Street was empty as usual early the next morning. Neighbors passed the ancient house at the end of the street as they went about their daily business. Nobody asked why the young couple had not been seen in several days. And at night, if you stood close enough to the home, you could still hear faint murmurs, as though the house itself were speaking—telling its narrative to anybody who ventured near.

None, though, ever listened for very long.

The curse of Willowbrook's haunted mansion persisted, its victims imprisoned inside waiting for the next naive family to occupy it.