**The Scourge of the Violated Soul**

Written by Ayman Ahmed

It was a chilly pre-winter evening in the little, failed to remember town of Harrowbrook, found somewhere down in the core of Pennsylvania. The roads were calm, as though the very air itself paused its breathing, hanging tight for something evil to unfurl. The residents had long murmured stories of an old, deserted house at the edge of town, a house that was supposed to be reviled — where the wrathful soul of a violated soul hid, prepared to guarantee any who really considered entering.

Nathaniel Blackwood, an effective legal counselor from New York City, had as of late moved to Harrowbrook with his better half, Emily, and their two small kids, Sam and Lily. Nathaniel was looking for harmony and peaceful, far away from the clamoring city, expecting to get away from the tensions of his powerful work. In any case, much to his dismay, his choice would lead his family into the hold of an old revile.

The house they had moved into was beguiling, an old Victorian-style fabricating that had been empty for a really long time. It was a long ways from the cutting edge condo they had abandoned, yet Nathaniel and Emily were attracted to its personality. The past proprietors, a peaceful old couple, had died under secretive conditions, and the house had stayed empty since. The real estate professional guaranteed them it was a protected, quiet spot to begin once more, yet the disrupting feeling Nathaniel had from the second they ventured inside couldn't be disregarded.

One night, as the family got comfortable, Nathaniel wandered into the storage room to investigate the space and maybe discover some old furnishings or collectibles to reestablish. The upper room, dusty and faintly lit, appeared to be immaculate by time. As he moved further in, a little, endured chest grabbed his attention. It was locked, however the key was holding tight a close by snare. Interest got the better of him, and he opened the chest.

Inside, he found a heap of old, yellowed papers, some of them written in a language he was unable to perceive. At the lower part of the chest lay a little, complicatedly cut wooden box. Something about the crate sent a chill down his spine, yet he felt a sense of urgency to take it. As his fingers brushed the surface, a low murmur consumed the space, and briefly, the temperature in the storage room appeared to drop.

Nathaniel immediately shut the chest and advanced first floor, attempting to shake off the sensation of disquiet. He was unable to make sense of it, yet something about the case appeared to convey a noxious energy. That evening, as he lay in bed, he could hear faint scratching sounds coming from the loft. Emily excused it as the house settling, yet Nathaniel couldn't shake the inclination that they had accidentally stirred something.

The next days were loaded up with weird events. Sam, the more youthful of the two kids, started to have bad dreams. He would awaken around midnight, shouting, his eyes wide with dread. Lily, typically a brilliant and lively young lady, became removed, gazing vacantly at nothing in particular as though paying attention to something no one but she could hear. The air in the house developed weighty, severe. The once warm and welcoming home currently felt like a jail.

One night, as Nathaniel was distant from everyone else in his review, he chose to investigate the old papers he had tracked down in the chest. As he translated the bizarre language, he started to make out the name "Edgar Thorne" and the expression, "Violated by the hands of the out of line, reviled to look for retaliation forever." His heart hustled as he read more, understanding the papers discussed a man who had resided in the house hundreds of years prior — a man who had been violated and killed by a bad appointed authority and his loved ones. The revile had bound his spirit to the house, and presently, it appeared, the revile had tracked down its next casualties.

That evening, as a tempest seethed outside, the family sat together in the lounge room, attempting to disregard the foreboding inclination that lingered palpably. Unexpectedly, the lights flashed, and the temperature decreased. A shadow got across the room, and afterward a voice, low and rough, murmured through the house.

"Leave... or then again endure."

The family froze, their hearts beating in their chests. Nathaniel stood up, his legs shudder, and went after the telephone to call for help. However, when he got it, there was no dial tone — simply the sound of slow, weighty breathing on the opposite end. Alarm set in. Emily grasped her kids to her, murmuring to them that all eventual great, however where it counts, she realized they were undependable.

In the days that followed, the bizarre events raised. Sam started addressing an undetectable companion, a man named Edgar. He would frequently be tracked down toward the side of the room, conversing with flimsy air, his demeanor empty and far off. Lily began to have angry outbursts, her little body shaking viciously as though something — or somebody — was controlling her. The once untainted family was presently cracked, every part turning out to be increasingly more consumed by the noxious presence that spooky the house.

Nathaniel, frantic for replies, went to the nearby curator, a lady named Margaret, who had lived in Harrowbrook her whole life. She knew all about the accounts of Edgar Thorne and the revile that tormented the house. "You should leave," she encouraged him. "The revile can't be broken without any problem. Just the individuals who have been violated by the uncalled for can free the soul of Edgar Thorne. What's more, when the revile has picked its casualties, there can be no way out."

Not set in stone to save his family, however every endeavor to take off from the house was upset. The streets appeared to extend on unendingly, driving them back to Harrowbrook, regardless of which bearing they took. The revile had bound them to the town, and they were caught.

The last night came like a tempest. The breezes cried outside, shaking the windows and shaking the walls. Inside, the family crouched together, dread grasping their hearts. Sam, presently more far off than any other time, remained in the room, his eyes spacey. His voice, as of now not his own, reverberated in the room.

"I'm Edgar Thorne," the voice grated. "You are the ones who will liberate me."

Nathaniel, understanding the weightiness of their circumstance, made a frantic supplication. "How would we break the revile? How must we respond?"

The air developed cold, and briefly, everything went still. Once more, then, the voice talked, this time with a frightening clearness.

"You should offer the spirit of the crooked," it said. "Really at that time will I be free."

Nathaniel's heart sank. He understood what that implied. The revile had picked them, however it wouldn't be fulfilled until somebody died. As he took a gander at his family, he realized there was just a single method for finishing the bad dream.

With shudder hands, Nathaniel moved in the direction of the old wooden box he had seen as in the loft. He needed to pursue a decision. The crate held the response to their salvation, yet at what cost?

As he lifted the case, a blinding light occupied the room, and the house appeared to moan under the heaviness of its own noxious power. The shadow of Edgar Thorne showed up before them, his face curved in misery. He connected, his skeletal fingers brushing against Nathaniel's cheek.

"You have liberated me," Edgar's voice murmured, "however in doing as such, you have fixed your destiny."

Furthermore, with that, the revile asserted its last casualties.

The following morning, the town of Harrowbrook stirred to find the Blackwood family gone, their home deserted again. The scourge of Edgar Thorne had guaranteed another family, and the house stood quiet, hanging tight for its next prey.

Concerning the crate, it stayed secret in the loft, trusting that the following individual will stir the rage of the violated soul and become a piece of the town's dull history.