There is an old warning: “Stay away from the old Hammond Manor!”

You see, there are a lot of old tales in every town. From the old creek at the edge of town to the old Hammond Manor–that coveted piece of explorer’s paradise!

Legend has it that there was an overworked and struggling author who neglected his family. The greatest casualty was Bobby, but no one wants to talk about him, for some reason. He was kept hostage by his father, who only allowed him to go to school.

Bobby, his twelve-year-old son, wasted away little by little, his psyche broken. His mother was not allowed to leave the house under any circumstances, and the local grocery store would deliver what they needed–and this was way before 1950 was a glint in the eye.

Sometimes, kids would knock on the front door. They were often greeted by Mrs. Hammond, a twenty-something with a delicate-looking frame. They never noticed anything was amiss and would ask if Bobby could come outside. Mrs. Hammond tried to look happy so she would not raise an alarm. She simply would say that “Bobby wasn’t feeling well, perhaps they could come back the next day?”

The kids would accept this and come back the next day, only to be turned away. This happened so much that, eventually, the kids stopped coming around. In the background, you could hear the tapping of a typewriter and smell the aroma of burning pipe tobacco. It was a scent all too familiar to anyone who came for a visit–or, rather, used to.

One day, Bobby wasn’t at school. There was no alarm, since he missed quite often, truancy the verdict. Everyone had assumed it was just another case of little Bobby Hammond playing hooky, and boy, would his father hit the roof when he found out!

There was something far more sinister going on. Bobby wasn’t playing hooky, but instead, he was being subjected to more imprisonment. He had lost his spark and knew his father was only going to get worse.

One night, he decided to talk to his father. He walked down the hall and saw his father, hard at work behind the typewriter. He stood at the doorway and cleared his throat when it dinged.

“Dad? When will you be finished with your book? We need something to eat.”

Mr. Hammond stood up and puffed his pipe.

“I will call for Franklin to deliver them.”

“I thought we could–“

Mr. Hammond lunged at him and grabbed his arms. They met each other’s gaze.

“Bobby, we don’t need to go outside.”

“But I want to!”

Mr. Hammond slapped Bobby in the face, and that was the turning point, they say. From that moment, things changed.

“No! You belong here!”

Mr. Hammond shook him possessively, and that was it. That night, while they were all asleep, Bobby could hear footsteps creeping through the hall. The sickening snap of what sounded like twigs echoed throughout. Bobby crept to his door and saw his sister in his dad’s arms, her body limp. Blood trickled to the floor, and she was still jerking from post-mortem.

He threw her over the banister, a loud thud echoing. Mrs. Hammond stood in the doorway, clutching her robe shut. She widened her eyes in terror, backing away, then arming herself with a letter opener.

“Don’t ya come any closer! I’ll do it!”

Mr. Hammond grabbed her wrist and squeezed it until it dropped. He shoved her and armed himself. She put up her arms in defense but was stabbed in the throat. She flopped like a fish out of water, and Bobby knew that was it.

He knew a loaded pistol was always in a hall table drawer. He slid it open and pulled the hammer back. A soft thud, and Mr. Hammond stood in the doorway. He scanned the room for any sign of his son but didn’t find anything.

Bobby then sneezed, and Mr. Hammond turned his attention to his new target. Bobby took aim, squeezed the trigger, and Mr. Hammond hit the floor hard. Bobby looked at his reflection in a hall mirror and saw his pale skin and malnourished body. He suddenly fell weak and died in the hallway next to his father.

Nobody knew what to say. It was the first time anyone had seen this level of trauma and abuse. It was unfathomable in the pre-1950s. The house was rumored to be cursed, and no one was allowed near it or inside it. Parents would warn, “You’ll see the evil Mr. Hammond!”

Kids, for the most part, would stay away after that. No one wanted to trifle with Mr. Hammond, even the high schoolers didn’t.

But those who are brave enough to try usually vanish. There are approximately forty cases of missing kids and other individuals who have been rumored to be victims. No one says anything because they all know they were victims of the Hammond Manor. Some find it difficult to believe Mr. Hammond, after being dead for decade upon decade, would be incapable of harming anyone.

He was never known for anything beyond paranoia, and no one read his works. Even to this day, you won’t find any information on the internet–not even the dark web. People didn’t want to talk about it, and they didn’t want to acknowledge the likelihood.

Some claim they have seen Mr. Hammond standing in the window of his study. Leah, his sister, stands in the window of her bedroom. Then, there’s Mrs. Hammond, who stands, face contorted in horror.

Then, there’s little Bobby Hammond, the mysterious little boy who plays in the yard. No one knows who he is for certain, but everyone knows it’s Bobby. The children are warned to stay far away from the Hammond Manor. They ignore the commands normally and are lucky if they can escape.

They’ll stop and ask his name. He’ll tell them and invite them in. No one knows what happens when the front door is shut.