I Bought a Property from the Maddox Heirs — And Found What They Were Paid to Forget | HO!!

VALLEY RIDGE, PA — When I first saw the listing for the Maddox estate—a sprawling, weathered Victorian on ten overgrown acres, priced for a quick sale—I thought I’d stumbled onto a once-in-a-lifetime bargain. The house, three stories of ornate woodwork and Gothic grandeur, seemed perfect for a writer seeking solitude. But as I would soon learn, some properties are priced low for reasons that can’t be measured in dollars.

What began as my personal dream of rural escape quickly became an unraveling mystery—one that led from hidden journals and family secrets to a century-old tragedy and a chilling pact meant to keep something otherworldly at bay. The deeper I dug, the more I realized: the Maddox heirs hadn’t just sold a house. They’d sold off their obligation to a secret that could never truly be forgotten.

A Quick Sale, a Cold Welcome

The first warning sign was how quickly the deal moved. The agent, Margaret Keller, refused to set foot inside the house, citing a cold. The heirs, living overseas, wanted nothing to do with the property. The closing attorney, Philip Jenkins, slid a non-disclosure agreement across the table, insisting it was “standard procedure.” The whole transaction felt rushed, even desperate.

I brushed off the unease. The house was magnificent, if neglected: a grand staircase, empty parlors, a library stripped of books, bedrooms filled with dust and silence. I moved in, set up my writing desk, and spent the first few days enjoying the isolation.

But on the fourth night, the house introduced itself.

Footsteps in the Attic

It started with footsteps overhead—slow, deliberate, impossible to mistake for the creaks and groans of an old house. I found the attic ladder down, though I’d never used it. The attic was filled with trunks and forgotten furniture, but no intruders. What caught my eye was a locked door, newer than the rest, with a heavy padlock. I made a mental note to return with tools.

The next morning, I explored the grounds. The woods pressed close to the north and east. In a clearing, I found a small stone mausoleum with a rusted iron gate: “Maddox, 1887.” Nearby, a half-buried silver pocket watch bore the inscription: “To Em. Some debts can never be paid. Some secrets must remain buried. SWL.” I pocketed the watch, my curiosity piqued.

Back in the attic, I broke the lock. Inside, dozens of leather-bound journals lined the shelves, dating from 1887 to 1972. I opened the earliest, belonging to Edmund Maddox, the original owner. The entries began with pride and optimism, but soon turned cryptic: “the arrangement… our obligation.” The last entry of 1887 was chilling: “It is done. God forgive us.”

Seven Crosses, Seven Children

That night, a crash in the kitchen revealed a single muddy child’s footprint. I lived alone. Later, I heard distant children’s laughter, saw a small figure darting at the woods’ edge. I found seven small, white, nameless crosses along the tree line. Their arrangement and age unsettled me.

The journals revealed a pattern: every generation, Maddox patriarchs wrote of “the arrangement,” “the price we pay,” and maintaining “the boundary.” In 1921, Thomas Maddox wrote, “Father never spoke of the arrangement, but made sure I understood my responsibilities… The boundary remains intact.” By the 1970s, Richard Maddox’s entries grew frantic: “The payments are no longer sufficient. It wants more. The boundary weakens.”

The Maddox family, it seemed, had been caretakers of a secret for generations.

The Tragedy Beneath the House

Seeking answers, I visited the local library. The Maddox family, I learned from historian Dr. Harrison, had been regionally prominent since the Civil War. But rumors swirled about the origins of their fortune—some whispered of a “deal with the devil.” The Langford family, their attorneys for generations, had abruptly dissolved their firm in the 1970s.

A mining accident in December 1887 loomed large in the town’s memory. Seven Riley children, all from one immigrant family, had died in a collapse on Maddox property. Official records claimed their bodies were never recovered. Yet seven crosses stood on my land.

The next day, I broke into the mausoleum. Inside were seven small niches, each with a Riley child’s name and the year 1887. The central sarcophagus bore only the date of the collapse and the same strange symbol—circle with a line—I’d seen carved into my front door. I found a journal there, too: Samuel W. Langford’s.

The Pact and the Boundary

Langford’s account was blunt. The mine collapse hadn’t been an accident. Maddox, cutting corners for profit, had excavated into a cavern local indigenous people warned was “cursed.” The Riley children, sent to bring their father dinner, were trapped during the collapse. For days, rescuers heard their voices—crying, singing, speaking in strange tongues. Then, on Christmas Eve, “something emerged… Not the children, but something wearing their forms.”

Overcome by guilt and fear, Maddox and Langford “constructed a boundary” using ritual implements, offerings, and symbols—meant to contain whatever had emerged. The arrangement required annual rituals, offerings, and the placement of the seven crosses. Payments, initially financial, escalated to blood and, eventually, to more sinister demands.

Langford’s final warning: “They remember what they once were, but are no longer children. They are ancient and patient. They will wait for the boundary to fail.”

The Boundary Fails

Soon after, the manifestations escalated. The crosses were torn up. The symbol on my door was scratched out. The attic journals vanished, replaced by a single page: instructions for a ritual to be performed on the winter solstice—December 21st, the anniversary of the collapse.

Desperate, I tracked down Eliza Langford, the last living descendant, in a nursing home. She confirmed everything: the arrangement, the rituals, the price. “They are not children,” she warned. “No matter what they look like, they are not the Riley children.” She handed me a key to a safe deposit box containing ritual instructions, seven silver crosses, a silver dagger, and a vial of dark liquid.

The ritual, she explained, would not banish the entities—only contain them. The price: blood freely given by the property’s owner.

The Winter Solstice

On December 21st, I performed the ritual. I placed the seven crosses, redrew the symbol, and spilled my blood as instructed. As I finished, seven childlike figures appeared at the edge of the woods, their faces shifting between innocence and something ancient and hungry.

The ritual worked. The boundary pulsed with light. The voices faded. The house grew warm again. But I knew what I had become: the new caretaker, the latest in a line of reluctant wardens.

A Bargain Never Ends

Six months later, I still live in the Maddox house. I keep the ritual, maintain the boundary, and record my experiences in the journals. Sometimes, at night, I watch seven small figures dancing at the edge of the woods, waiting for the day the boundary fails again.

The Maddox heirs weren’t just selling a house. They were selling their freedom from a debt that can never truly be paid—a secret meant to stay buried, but now mine to keep.