Haunted Farm House

by David Letts

Title

Haunted Farm House

Artist

David Letts

Medium

Photograph - Photograph

Description

Photograph of an abandon haunted neglected farm house with red wood shutters hidden within cornfields.

The old farmhouse stood in silence, swallowed by time and the towering cornfields that surrounded it. Its red wood shutters, once a beacon of warmth, now hung crooked, their paint peeling like aged parchment. The roof sagged under years of neglect, and the front porch creaked even when no foot crossed it. The wind whispered through broken windows, carrying echoes of voices long gone.

Few dared to step beyond the rusted gate. Locals swore the house was haunted—strange shadows moved behind its shattered panes, and at night, faint murmurs could be heard, carried on the wind like ghostly secrets. But what most had forgotten—what time itself had nearly buried—was the truth: this house had once been a refuge, a place of salvation for those fleeing shackles and chains.

Long ago, when the world was darker, this farmhouse had been part of the Underground Railroad. Hidden beneath its rotting floorboards, beneath the dust and decay, was a tunnel—a lifeline for those seeking freedom. Families had once crouched in the basement, breath held as slave catchers rode past. Lanterns flickered in the night, signaling safety, a promise of escape.

But freedom had come at a cost. The house had seen terror, felt the weight of fear. Some whispered of a betrayal—a night when torches burned in the fields, and footsteps thundered up the porch. Some who had sought sanctuary never left.

Now, those who wandered too close swore they could still hear them. Soft knocks from beneath the floor. A glimpse of a pale hand reaching from the cellar door before vanishing into the dark. Others claimed the shutters moved on their own, swinging open and closed as if someone—something—was still watching, still waiting.

No one had lived there in decades. No one dared. But the farmhouse remained, standing in defiance, its red shutters peering through the corn like watchful eyes. It was more than wood and nails, more than a forgotten relic. It was a place of memory, of ghosts, of whispers that would never fade.

And on stormy nights, when the wind howled through the fields and lightning lit up the sky, some swore the house still stood guard—waiting, as it always had, for the lost to find their way home.

Uploaded

January 18th, 2020

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