"Utold Stories" (Image and Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
The House in the Woods
Once, the house stood proud at the edge of the woods, its walls bright with paint, its roof unbroken by the passage of time. A family lived within it, their laughter spilling through the open windows on warm summer evenings. The kitchen smelled of bread and cinnamon, and the rooms echoed with the hurried footsteps of children racing to see who could climb the stairs the fastest. The windows framed pictures of the world outside—the fields stretching wide, the trees that whispered secrets in the breeze.
There was a room where the couple slept, a space where the quiet hum of love wrapped itself around them like the blankets that covered their tired bodies. There was a rocking chair by the hearth, where the old woman would sit by the fire and watch the sun set behind the hills, a quiet companion to the house, and to the seasons as they passed.
Through the years, the house weathered it all: births and deaths, joy and sorrow, the ordinary rhythms of a life lived fully. But as the seasons turned, as they always do, the house found itself standing still while the world around it moved on. Children grew up and moved away. Lovers grew old, and the quiet woman’s hands no longer rocked the chair. The winds came harder, the rain heavier, the sun less forgiving. The house began to sag, its paint peeling, its roof cracking. The windows that once caught the light fell to the ground in jagged shards, their glass now a thousand pieces scattered across the earth.
And then, one day, the family was gone.
The house stood in the woods alone, its walls fading into the landscape, the echoes of its past nearly lost in the hum of the forest. Yet, even in the silence, there was life. The trees had begun to reclaim it—tendrils of ivy climbed along the walls, moss softening the sharp edges of the stone. The once-tended garden was now a wild tangle of ferns and wildflowers.
Animals began to find their way inside. A family of birds built a nest high in the rafters where the wind still whispered. Squirrels scurried through the empty rooms, darting between cracks and crevices where sunlight slipped through like golden threads. A fox, hungry and worn, curled up by the hearth where the embers no longer glowed, finding warmth in the memory of fire.
The house had no voice to speak, but if one listened closely, they could hear the stories that clung to its bones. The creak of the floorboards was not just the wind—it was the sound of the children running barefoot, chasing each other through the halls. The soft groan of the beams was not just the weight of the passing years—it was the sound of the old man’s footsteps as he walked to the window each morning, gazing out at the changing seasons. The rustle of the leaves against the broken windows was the laughter of a family, now only faintly remembered.
The house was no longer a home for people, but it had not forgotten what it had once been. In the cool, quiet nights, when the forest seemed to settle into a deep sleep, the house would exhale, its breath slow and steady. The wind would rattle the broken windows, and for a moment, you could almost hear the sound of the old oak rocking chair creaking by the hearth. It was as though the house could remember.
In its dreams, the house was alive again. It was a place of love, of warmth, of people gathered around the table, of tears wiped away in the quiet comfort of home. But it was not sad. It was peaceful. For even in its decay, the house was shelter, still offering its embrace to the creatures of the woods. And in the stillness, there was something like contentment.
The house slumbered, its stories woven into its walls, tucked away like secrets in the dark. The forest had claimed it, but the house did not mind. It was not forgotten. It was simply waiting, resting in the woods, its dreams quietly alive with the echoes of all it had known.
~Wylddane
Once, the house stood proud at the edge of the woods, its walls bright with paint, its roof unbroken by the passage of time. A family lived within it, their laughter spilling through the open windows on warm summer evenings. The kitchen smelled of bread and cinnamon, and the rooms echoed with the hurried footsteps of children racing to see who could climb the stairs the fastest. The windows framed pictures of the world outside—the fields stretching wide, the trees that whispered secrets in the breeze.
There was a room where the couple slept, a space where the quiet hum of love wrapped itself around them like the blankets that covered their tired bodies. There was a rocking chair by the hearth, where the old woman would sit by the fire and watch the sun set behind the hills, a quiet companion to the house, and to the seasons as they passed.
Through the years, the house weathered it all: births and deaths, joy and sorrow, the ordinary rhythms of a life lived fully. But as the seasons turned, as they always do, the house found itself standing still while the world around it moved on. Children grew up and moved away. Lovers grew old, and the quiet woman’s hands no longer rocked the chair. The winds came harder, the rain heavier, the sun less forgiving. The house began to sag, its paint peeling, its roof cracking. The windows that once caught the light fell to the ground in jagged shards, their glass now a thousand pieces scattered across the earth.
And then, one day, the family was gone.
The house stood in the woods alone, its walls fading into the landscape, the echoes of its past nearly lost in the hum of the forest. Yet, even in the silence, there was life. The trees had begun to reclaim it—tendrils of ivy climbed along the walls, moss softening the sharp edges of the stone. The once-tended garden was now a wild tangle of ferns and wildflowers.
Animals began to find their way inside. A family of birds built a nest high in the rafters where the wind still whispered. Squirrels scurried through the empty rooms, darting between cracks and crevices where sunlight slipped through like golden threads. A fox, hungry and worn, curled up by the hearth where the embers no longer glowed, finding warmth in the memory of fire.
The house had no voice to speak, but if one listened closely, they could hear the stories that clung to its bones. The creak of the floorboards was not just the wind—it was the sound of the children running barefoot, chasing each other through the halls. The soft groan of the beams was not just the weight of the passing years—it was the sound of the old man’s footsteps as he walked to the window each morning, gazing out at the changing seasons. The rustle of the leaves against the broken windows was the laughter of a family, now only faintly remembered.
The house was no longer a home for people, but it had not forgotten what it had once been. In the cool, quiet nights, when the forest seemed to settle into a deep sleep, the house would exhale, its breath slow and steady. The wind would rattle the broken windows, and for a moment, you could almost hear the sound of the old oak rocking chair creaking by the hearth. It was as though the house could remember.
In its dreams, the house was alive again. It was a place of love, of warmth, of people gathered around the table, of tears wiped away in the quiet comfort of home. But it was not sad. It was peaceful. For even in its decay, the house was shelter, still offering its embrace to the creatures of the woods. And in the stillness, there was something like contentment.
The house slumbered, its stories woven into its walls, tucked away like secrets in the dark. The forest had claimed it, but the house did not mind. It was not forgotten. It was simply waiting, resting in the woods, its dreams quietly alive with the echoes of all it had known.
~Wylddane
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