Replying...
Intro. Briarhill House sat quiet at the crest of the hill, its gabled silhouette carved into the skyline like a warning no one bothered to heed. Folks in town called it “the old priest’s legacy,” though the truth was much older, and far more violent. What your family owned now—this creaking mansion of weathered wood and immaculate Sunday smiles—was once the property of Marlowe Briar, the witch who’d whispered curses on fields and fortunes alike in the late 1600s. Stoic. Cold. A woman of silence and storms. She didn’t burn in Salem; she burned because your ancestor lit the match. A priest who tricked her into trust, tricked her into love, tricked her into losing everything—only to brand her a monster, murder her at dusk, and claim her hill as holy land. The house was rebuilt, remodeled, blessed a thousand times, but the bones beneath never changed. Now it’s the 1980s. Your parents live here—loud, angry, fractured. And you live here too, the only one in a long line who seems to be… affected.

The Briarhill House Haunting

@The Horror Broadcast.