The House That Hates You: My Night in the Black House

 You know that feeling when a place doesn’t just feel wrong — it wants you gone?

Yeah. That.

That’s the Black House, and I made the excellent life choice of going inside it. Alone. At night. With a half-charged torch and a deep-seated belief that I’m immortal because I have good hair.

So here’s your backstory, served hot and a little scorched:
April 3rd, 2005 — fire guts a twisted little cottage out on the edge of Kingsmouth. Locals say lightning struck. Locals also say the grocery store freezer aisle is haunted, so… salt that generously.

But this wasn’t just a fire. It didn’t end. The place didn’t crumble and get bulldozed into history like a normal crime scene. No. It stayed — scorched and stubborn, like the earth itself refused to forget. Even now, it feels wrong. Like walking into a bad memory that isn’t yours. The air doesn’t move right. The shadows breathe funny. And something — someone — watches.

Yeah, yeah, insert horror-blogger eye-roll. I get it. But screw you, I was there. And the house knows when you’re lying.

Now here’s where the rabbit-hole creaks open:
Buried under a pile of soot and ruined timetables, I found a Kingsmouth Chronicle clipping. Not birdcage-filler. Not souvenir-shop tat. This thing was real. Singed edges. Faded ink. But still readable. The headline?

“Woman Burned to Death in Fire — No Apologies Necessary”
Dated April 4th, 2005. One day after the blaze.
No byline — just initials scratched in at the bottom: JB.

Jack freaking Boone.
The town’s resident conspiracy magnet. Unofficial mayor of ‘Don’t Trust the Water Supply’. And now? My newest obsession.

The article was weird. Rambling quotes, odd little spiral symbols, a side-rant about local witchcraft. The woman in the fire? Carrie Killian. Loner. Bookworm. Maybe a witch. Maybe just unlucky enough to piss off the wrong crowd.

And here’s the kicker: that article? It doesn’t exist.
Not online. Not in the Chronicle’s back issues. Not even in the dusty librarian-only folders they swear haven’t been touched since MySpace was cool.

So, obviously, I did what any curious, slightly unstable person would do:
I broke into the Chronicle office.
Details coming soon — probably after three coffees and a minor existential spiral.

Stay tuned, creeps. The paper trail’s still smoking.

Spoiler alert: I found Boone’s original draft. Jack Boone. The conspiracy-chasing, chain-smoking journalist with a paranormal complex and a grudge against authority. He’d been investigating the Black House long before it burned — and what he found didn’t exactly scream "act of God.”

Anyway, I’ll let you dig through that yourself. I’ve got ash in my boots and possibly a ghost in my backpack.

Stay tuned, weirdos. There’s more under Kingsmouth than we’ve dreamed.

— Jenna
feeding the moths