Alright, so this one time, back in '22, I decided to visit up my best friend from time past in this remote part of Bulgaria. You know the kind, where every house has a story, and the local diner's the hotspot for any news, gossip, or ghost tales.
It was late October, but the weather decided to throw a curveball with an early snowstorm. The night was pitch black, snow mixed with rain, making everything eerily quiet except for the howl of the wind. My friend’s place was on the outskirts, near these old woods everyone avoided. Said there were folks living underground there, from times way back, but you know how it is with small-town legends.
So, I'm there, and during dinner, the power goes out. No surprise with the storm, but then we hear this knocking. Not at the door, but from below. My friend, he just laughs it off, says it's the house settling, but there's this look in his eyes, right?
We decide to call it a night, and I'm in this creaky bed, trying to sleep when I hear it again. More distinct this time, like someone's tapping on wood. Curiosity got the better of me, so I grab a flashlight, and head towards the basement, where the noise seems to come from.
The basement's what you'd expect, dusty, filled with old junk, but there's this one corner where the floor's earth, not concrete. And right there, in that earth, there's what looks like the top of a coffin. I swear, my heart skipped a beat. As I'm staring, the lid shifts, just a bit, but enough to make me drop my flashlight.
Now, I'm not one to scare easy, but this? This was something else. I back up, stumble over some old tools, and as I'm scrambling to get out, the basement door slams shut. Wind? Maybe. But then, this whisper, can't make out the words, but it's coming from that coffin.
I muster up whatever courage I've got left, grab an old shovel for defense, and approach. The whispering stops. With a deep breath, I push the lid, expecting the worst. Inside, there's no body, but an old, tattered note. It read something like, "We wake when the world forgets."
I didn't wait around to find out more. I bolted upstairs, told my friend we're leaving. NOW. He didn't argue, just grabbed his keys.
We drove to the diner, stayed there till dawn. The locals there, after hearing my stuttering tale, nodded like they knew the punchline to a joke I just told. Turns out, there's this old tale about people who chose to live underground, waiting for the world above to forget them so they could... I dunno, come back? Reclaim something?
Never found out what happened to that house. My friend abandoned it, moved south. But every time it rains or snows, especially at night, I remember that tapping, that whisper, and the cold grip of fear. And I wonder if they're still there, waiting.
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