Physical Address
304 North Cardinal St.
Dorchester Center, MA 02124
The Warlock House
A strange old house stands in rural northeastern Tennessee. The manor was once owned by a recluse. No one knew him, and he maintained that privacy. Gossip and tall tales revolved around him, so much so that the locals began to call him a “warlock,” just because of his behavior. His house became known as the “Warlock House.” For the purpose of the story, we’ll just call him Warlock.
He rarely went into town unless he needed supplies. One day, he returned just days after visiting. This was in 1925. He argued with the feed store owner. He believed the shop owner had sold him rotten feed. A few people witnessed the argument, but no one thought much of it. The shopkeeper refused to refund his money or provide feed that wasn’t rotten.
The mystery began right after.
A wave of tragedies hit the store owner. Half of his cattle herd died from murrain. His crops were hit with blight. He lost his children and his wife to smallpox. The only thing he had left was his small mercantile.
He couldn’t take the tremendous loss.
He threw himself into the Holston River and drowned.
The few who saw the men argue became suspicious. It seemed like every tragedy stemmed from the altercation. The coincidences seemed too timed and too perfect to be mere happenstance.
Everyone else liked the shopkeeper, and his store was the only one for miles. This meant if anyone needed supplies, they had to travel many hours just to reach the next store.
They grew livid with the warlock.
They decided to do something about it.
They believed he couldn’t bewitch them all. A mob formed and marched to the Warlock House with torches in hand.
They held the torches to the house, but it just wouldn’t burn.
They tried to light the porches, the siding. They even tried pouring gasoline on the roof. The gas was like water. It put the flames out.
The townspeople broke into the house, but it was empty. It looked like the warlock had been gone for years. They couldn’t get the house to catch fire inside any more than outside.
They burned the ground away from the house, but the fire wouldn’t go near the structure.
They doused the flames for fear of starting a wildfire and returned home.
The sheriff arrived just in time to see the mob disperse. Several stayed to tell him what happened. He looked for the man for weeks but couldn’t find anything.
No one in the community knew his name or where he was from. There were no identifying documents in the house. The deed for the property was fifty years old and made out to a “John Smith.”
The old-timers said they had no memory of anyone else living in that house. It was old and abandoned when they noticed the warlock living there.
No one in the community had ever gone inside.
No one saw the warlock again. However, the house was somehow maintained.
After that night, the doors and windows were shut and locked. Nothing changed inside, but nothing decayed or rotted either. The dust coating the floors never grew any thicker. The muck on the windows didn’t change.
It was as if the world within its walls had been suspended.
Within a few years, the home grew a new green metal roof.
No one ever saw any roofers in the area, and no one ordered metal from the nearest store.
It just appeared.
During the 1980s, a group of teens broke into the house. They thought it was empty…
until they tried to leave.
The glass window they broke to enter was suddenly whole again. No amount of force would break that glass a second time. None of the other windows would break. None of the doors would open.
The house suddenly filled with the sounds of voices and movement.
Icy winds blasted the teens until dawn.
Then the doors opened for them to leave.
Two suffered permanent psychological damage. Two had frostbite. Within a year, three had unexpectedly thrown themselves into the river and drowned.
The house still stands deep in the forest. It is rarely seen by anyone other than hunters or hikers.
No one will go near it.
Nothing changes inside, but nothing decays or rots either. The dust coating the floors never grows any thicker. The muck on the windows doesn’t change.
It’s as if the world within its walls has been suspended.
