Here is another story I wrote for a writing contest. This time, I needed to use these phrases in the story:
a dog barked; the salt was tipped over; an empty bird feeder; sound of wind chimes; the mailbox was full.

The sound of wind chimes caught my ear as I passed by the old Murphy place. Not a breath of air stirred in the morning light. The chimes rang softly, their delicate tinkling offering a strange contrast to the stillness of the world around me. The Murphy place had been empty for as long as I could remember—boarded-up windows, ivy creeping up the walls like a silent, suffocating embrace. It had been years since anyone had lived there. So, why the chimes now?

I paused for a moment, straining to listen, but the chimes were all I heard. Glancing at the house as I walked by, my feet pulled me onward. The morning sun cast long shadows across the grass. I could see the shape of the house, weathered and fading, paint peeling off like old skin; the front yard, wild with overgrown grass and untended hedges. Nothing here suggested life, nothing that beckoned. So, I shook my head and kept walking, the melody of the wind chime fading behind me.

Later that day, I noticed the mailbox was full, but thought nothing of it as I walked home. A stack of letters, bills, and probably some junk mail—the usual. But something about the full box felt different. It was unusually overflowing—so much so that it caught my eye as I passed. I imagined someone’d cleared it out days ago. Again, I dismissed it, chalking it up to the new owners, or maybe a careless delivery person.

The setting sun cast a reddish glow over everything when I heard the chimes again. This time, I didn’t keep walking. I stopped. There it was again. A soft, melodic sound, floating through the air like a signal. I had to go back.

Retracing my steps, I headed toward the Murphy place—curiosity nudging me along. The thick scent of old grass and dust permeated the still evening. The chimes sang in a steady rhythm, calling me closer.

As I reached the fence lining the property, I peered through the gaps in the rotting wood. No one was in sight. The house sat like an abandoned relic, its doors shut tight, its windows dark. The yard was as wild as before, with no signs of movement, but that sound—the chimes—drew me in.

A dog barked, the sound sharp and startling. I jumped, my heart racing. The noise came from somewhere inside the house, muffled and distant, but unmistakable. My head spun with confusion. A dog? Here? I took a step back, eyes scanning the yard. I saw no sign of movement, no figure lurking by the windows. But the bark was so real, so definite, I couldn’t deny it.

I thought of the mailbox again, bulging with mail, and the oddity of it.

I stood there for a moment, unsure. Should I go inside? Should I call someone? I debated it. But curiosity won, pushing me toward the door. The handle turned with unexpected ease, hinges creaking as the door swung open. A cold draft hit me.

The house smelled musty; the air was thick with the neglect of years. Dust hung in the corners, and the wood floors groaned under my feet. I paused, listening for any sign of life. The chimes continued to play in the distance, though quieter now, almost muffled.

I walked deeper into the house, floorboards creaking under my every step. My eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the gaps in the boarded-up windows. The living room was empty, save for remnants of old furniture—a broken armchair, a dust-covered table, and a few items that looked left behind in a rush.

I heard the barking again. Louder, closer.

My heart raced. I didn’t want to go further, but I felt drawn. Something was here, something that’s been waiting. I can’t shake the feeling.

I moved cautiously through the house, each room empty, save for decay. I passed by the kitchen and stopped in the doorway, staring at something on the floor. The salt was tipped over, spilling across the cracked tile in a small, spiraling mound. A weird sense of unease trickled down my spine.

I backed away, a little shaken. The house was silent again, except for the wind chimes singing their eerie melody.

I kept walking.

The hallway was narrow, dark, and lined with faded, peeling wallpaper. At the end of the hall, a door stood ajar. I stepped forward, hand on the doorknob. The dog barked again, louder, more frantic. I heard its paws scratching at the floor, desperate.

I pushed the door open.

Inside was a small room, barely more than a closet. It smelled of wet earth and old wood. And there in the corner was an empty bird feeder; hanging limply, swaying slightly, as if something had just been there. The sight, the emptiness, was oddly unsettling. Why was a bird feeder in here?

The dog barked again. This time, right behind me. I spun around, heart racing, expecting to see a dog, some mangy stray locked in the house, but nothing. Just silence.

The wind chimes grew louder. No longer a soft lullaby; they sounded like a warning. A rattle in the air, an eerie screech that vibrated through my bones. I could no longer ignore it.

I turned to leave the room, but something caught my eye. Lying on the hallway floor, I saw a small, rotting book; its cover cracked and tattered. I bent to pick it up. An old journal, pages yellowed with age. As I flipped through, I found strange, cryptic symbols scribbled across the paper. Words I didn’t understand, but felt curiously familiar.

A voice echoed through the room. I jumped.

“Help me…”

Faint, barely a whisper, threading its way through the air. My hands shook as I clutched the journal to my chest; the voice grew louder, clearer.

“Help me…”

I ran. I didn’t look back, but the dog’s bark followed me, louder and more frantic. The wind chimes clattered in a wild frenzy; the sound turned deafening. It filled the house, my head, my chest, until I felt like I would shatter.

I made it to the door, heart pounding in my throat. Slamming it open, I stumbled onto the porch, gasping for breath. I didn’t stop running until I reached the street, back where the sun set low on the horizon. Yet, as I looked behind me at the Murphy place, the wind chimes still sang.

The next day, I returned. Wind chimes now silent, the mailbox was full again; letters spilling out like a strange invitation. I hesitated for a long time, hand hovering over the gate handle. Something whispered that I needed to go back. I sensed something hidden, something I couldn’t yet grasp.

I took a deep breath, stepping forward. I had to know.