It was a foggy evening when Marcy wandered into the old orchard at the edge of town, drawn by rumors of a haunted treehouse. Locals called it the “Witch’s Nest,” and everyone avoided it after sunset. But Marcy, fueled by teenage dares and her own curiosity, was determined to see for herself.
She found the tree easily enough—a gnarled, ancient oak, its branches sagging like tired arms. At its center hung a rickety wooden ladder, swaying in the breeze. It looked like it hadn’t been used in decades. Still, Marcy grasped the first rung.
"Probably just an old treehouse," she muttered, ignoring the uneasy flutter in her chest.
Each step groaned under her weight, the wood brittle and damp. Halfway up, the air grew strangely cold. A crow shrieked nearby, and Marcy almost lost her grip. She climbed faster, eager to reach the top and prove nothing was wrong.
As she pulled herself into the house, a gust slammed the door behind her. The room was musty, filled with cobwebs and broken toys. In the corner stood a mirror, its surface unnaturally clean. Marcy stepped toward it, and as she stared, her reflection didn’t mimic her. Instead, it smiled.
A long, creepy smile.
Heart pounding, she turned and bolted for the ladder—but it was gone. Just the bare tree trunk remained.
“Unlucky,” a voice whispered behind her.
She spun around. No one.
Then the floor began to crack beneath her feet.
Some say they still hear screams on foggy nights from that orchard. Others say it was just a prank gone wrong. But the ladder never reappeared, and neither did Marcy.
Some doors—especially creepy ones in cursed treehouses—are better left unopened.
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