Arthur was dead the moment he set foot inside the house. It only took him a while to realize it. The hallway was filled with Arthurs's frantic panting as he ran. Sweat stung his eyes as he tried to escape. He took a chair and used it to block the door. He could hear the skittering horde on the other side, clawing their way through the door, the scratching of the door sounds like daggers carving the thick wood of the door. He looked around frantically for somewhere to hide. His eyes were caught by the bed, and he quickly dove under it, covering his mouth before the dagger-like pincers could break down the door. They breached the door, and several skittering legs looked around the room. They overturned many of the furniture, hacking the wood down with their bladed arms like woodsmen hacking lumber. Arthur covered his mouth, trying not to make a sound. Not a single noise. Not even a whimper. The creatures walked around the room searching. Though only about the size of a dog, they were strong enough to break through the dresser, chopping into it mercilessly. Sweat poured off of Arthurs's brow, and frightened tears filled his eyes. Then Arthur’s fears were realized when the creatures came closer to the bed. He tried to cover his mouth, praying to any Gods who would listen to his plea silently. He bit into his hand out of fear, trying to keep silent. The clocking from their mandibles grew louder and louder until finally, they left the room as suddenly as they had entered. The sounds of their trodding vanished down the hallway, and the room was left in total, complete silence.
Arthur waited for a few precious seconds. Each passing moment felt like an eternity, but he had to be sure that those abominations wouldn’t return. He crawled out of bed very carefully and tried not to make a sound. When he stood up, there was a silent creaking noise under him, the old grainy wood making that ugly sound. Arthur looked down in fright and then awaited the coming horde. Nothing. He breathed a sigh of relief. He had regained hope. Hawthorn House, however, delighted in filling its prey with hope. It loved that moment that it created when it gave them the illusion of chance. That moment when everything looked like it would be alright, only then to snatch that hope away. The previously underside of the bed which had been empty when Arthur crawled under it now had two glaring eyes under it. Blackened tendrils grabbed at Arthur’s legs and quickly pulled him under the bed.
No one listened to Arthur’s screams from Hawthorn house. At least, They pretended not to hear them. It was always the same thing. Every adventurer bold enough would go into that damned place, brandishing their sword, ready to slay any monsters that lay within. Hawthorn House, however, was not so easy a foe to face. Not some bandit to face down, some Orcish warlord who wanted to burn down your village. It wasn’t any monster with an easily discernible face that would roll over and die once you plunged a sword into it. It was an evil all on its own. An entity that knew you better than you knew yourself, like a parent knowing their child. Arthur had gone in there thinking he would find whatever gave that place its power. Whatever evil had possessed the house, and had claimed Baron Sigfried’s daughter. He would be like a hero in a fairy tale. A handsome, young knight who braved the many evils the world had to offer. Slay the frightful monster that had kidnapped the fair maiden, rescue the damsel, and have his happily ever after. The fool.
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He had unknowingly slit his own throat by setting foot into that place. Arthur had always been blinded by his pride and vanity. The son of a nobleman who thought himself the prince charming of his own story. The boy who thought himself a man. The noble idiot who thought himself a knight. The fool who thought himself the hero. When he entered Hawthorn village, the villagers knew they were seeing a dead man walking to his own gallows, while thinking himself invincible. It would not be a restful night. It never was when some would-be hero decided to brave that place. As if the force inside could be so easily slain. As if whatever possessed the house could be exorcized. But the villagers knew full well that the house itself was evil.
The screams echoed into the night like a pack of wolves howling into the wind. The boy’s terrified, guttural screams fill the night with dread. Agatha, one of the villagers, found herself crying. That boy was so young. So handsome. Fair as spring's first kiss. To hear the abject pain that his final moments brought him crushed her tender heart. In the next house over, Gertrude tried to comfort her children, who had begun to wail almost as loudly as Arthur was. How could she comfort them, imagining what horrors were currently rending the boy asunder, bit by bit, tendon by tendon? Ulfric, the village Elder, also kept awake. Nights like this brought nothing but haunting memories to him. So many like Arthur dared to enter that forsaken place. So many tried to enter inside, but none ever returned. Ulfric could see Arthur’s face in the darkness, Almost as if he were watching the boy suffering. Arthur's face would be added to the ever-growing collection Ulfric had in his dreams, waking up in the middle of the night to see everyone he met in his lifetime that had ever set foot into Hawthorn house. And Ulfric had lived for many, many years. The faces of those foolish enough to enter the house numbered in the hundreds if not a thousand. He may have forgotten the names, but their faces...their faces he will never forget.
As suddenly as the screams came into the night, they were gone. Hawthorn house got what it wanted. It warned the villagers, and reminded them of its superiority, like an alpha predator reminding the forest who it was that ruled. Like the Dragon at the Iron Mountain, this display of terror was meant to instill fear into those who could listen. The worst thing out of the night of screams, as always, was the silence. The dead silence. The silence that only happens at the passing of something. The final breath is taken. The dim candle light flickered before being extinguished. The last strum of a guitar as the song ends. That was the worst part. The Silence. When all the villagers below in the valley were overlooked by the ever-watchful gaze of Hawthorn House, they were left alone in the silence. They knew that Arthur was no more. Just like all the others. Why don’t they listen? Why don’t they ever listen?