Late one evening, Emma sat alone in her newly inherited Victorian home, unpacking boxes. The house had belonged to her great-aunt, whom she barely knew, and was nestled deep in the countryside. The air was still, and the house creaked as if it were settling, though it had stood tall for over a century. The silence was comforting to some, but to Emma, it felt suffocating.
As she unpacked, Emma found an old key tied with a red ribbon. It looked ancient, rusted from time, but it gleamed in a way that made it seem… important. Curious, she examined it and realized it might open the attic door. Her aunt had always forbidden anyone from going up there, but she was gone now, and Emma’s curiosity got the best of her.
Candle in hand, Emma climbed the narrow staircase to the attic. The wooden steps groaned under her weight, and she could feel a chill in the air as she ascended. When she reached the top, she found a dusty, heavy door. She hesitated but then fit the key into the lock. With a loud *click*, the door swung open.
The attic was filled with old furniture draped in white sheets and the faint smell of mildew. Emma felt an odd sensation as if she were not alone, though the room appeared empty. She stepped inside, her candle flickering as though disturbed by a draft, though there was no wind.
As Emma ventured deeper into the attic, she noticed a large mirror standing against the far wall, covered in a thick layer of dust. Something about it unsettled her, but she felt an urge to uncover it. She reached out and wiped away the dust, revealing the glass beneath. Her reflection stared back at her, but something was off.
Her reflection… didn’t move.
Emma’s heart skipped a beat. She waved her hand in front of the mirror, but her reflection remained still, eyes wide and unblinking. Then, slowly, the reflection’s mouth began to curl into a sinister smile. Emma stepped back in horror, but the figure in the mirror didn’t retreat. Instead, it stepped forward, pressing its hands against the inside of the glass as if it were trying to break free.
Panicking, Emma turned to run, but the attic door slammed shut. The air grew cold, and she could hear faint whispering all around her. The candle flickered and went out, plunging her into darkness.
Behind her, the sound of glass shattering echoed through the attic.
A voice, eerily similar to her own, whispered, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Emma screamed as something cold grabbed her from behind, pulling her toward the shattered mirror. Her vision blurred, and the last thing she saw was her reflection stepping out of the broken glass, smiling… as it walked away, leaving her trapped on the other side.
No one ever saw Emma again. The townsfolk say the house is cursed, and at night, if you listen closely, you can still hear whispers coming from the attic. Some even claim that if you look into the old mirror, you might catch a glimpse of Emma—now the reflection, trapped forever in the shadow of the glass.
**Tales from the House That Hungers: Part 2**
Years passed after Emma’s mysterious disappearance, and the once-grand Victorian house fell deeper into neglect. No one dared approach it. The overgrown garden and broken windows gave it a haunted appearance, and the stories of Emma’s fate spread like wildfire through the nearby village. Despite the warnings, rumors of hidden treasures left behind by Emma’s great-aunt attracted the occasional brave soul, but none stayed long.
One rainy afternoon, a man named Daniel drove into town. He was a historian, fascinated by old estates and the legends they held. He’d heard the stories of Emma’s disappearance but dismissed them as mere superstition. Armed with a flashlight, a camera, and a resolve to uncover the truth, Daniel decided to spend the night in the house. He planned to document the house’s history and, if possible, locate the attic that had been spoken of in hushed tones.
The front door was unlocked, creaking loudly as he stepped inside. Dust swirled around him, and the air smelled stale. His footsteps echoed on the wooden floorboards as he explored the house, snapping photos of the antique furniture and the faded wallpaper. It was as if time had stood still here, everything frozen in place the day Emma vanished.
After hours of exploration, Daniel found the attic staircase hidden behind an old, rotting door at the back of the house. His pulse quickened as he made his way up, each step creaking under his weight. When he reached the top, the attic door stood before him, closed, but unlocked. Taking a deep breath, he pushed it open.
The attic was just as the stories described—draped furniture, thick dust, and an eerie, almost suffocating silence. His flashlight beam swept across the room, and there, in the corner, he saw it: the mirror.
It was cracked, the shattered glass reflecting twisted images of the room. Despite the damage, Daniel felt a strange compulsion to approach it. As he stood before the mirror, he saw his reflection—whole, not fragmented like the glass. He blinked, confused, because in the reflection, the attic appeared… pristine. The furniture wasn’t covered in dust or sheets, and the light in the reflection seemed warm, as if the house was alive again.
Then, something in the reflection moved.
Daniel froze, watching as a figure slowly stepped into view behind him. It was a woman, her features gaunt, her eyes wide with terror. She looked just like the descriptions of Emma. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. She lifted her hands, pressing them against the inside of the mirror, her eyes pleading.
Suddenly, the flashlight flickered and went out, plunging the room into darkness. Daniel’s heart raced as he fumbled to turn the light back on. When it finally flickered to life, Emma’s reflection was gone. But the whispering had begun.
It was faint at first, barely audible, but it grew louder with each passing second. Daniel swung his flashlight around the room, but there was no one there. The mirror, however, began to change. The reflection no longer showed Daniel or the attic. Instead, it revealed a long hallway, lined with doors.
A door behind Daniel slammed shut, trapping him in the attic. The whispering grew more frantic, the words unintelligible, but filled with urgency. Desperation clawed at him as he turned back to the mirror. Emma’s reflection had returned, but she wasn’t alone this time. A dark figure stood behind her, its form barely human, made of shifting shadows. Its eyes glowed a sickly yellow, and its long, bony fingers reached for Emma’s shoulders, pulling her back into the darkness.
She screamed, but no sound escaped.
Suddenly, the mirror began to crack even further, splintering as the shadow creature pressed its way toward the surface. Daniel backed away, heart pounding, as the figure extended its hand out of the mirror, inching closer to the real world.
Without thinking, Daniel turned to run, but the attic was no longer the same. The room stretched into a seemingly endless corridor, identical to the one he had seen in the mirror. Doors lined the walls, each one slightly ajar. The whispers were louder now, coming from behind every door.
“Help… me…” a faint voice called from one of the rooms.
Daniel froze. It was Emma’s voice. He knew the stories said she had been trapped, but… was she still alive in some way? Torn between fear and curiosity, he cautiously approached the door from where the voice had come. His hand trembled as he pushed it open.
Inside, the room was cold, and the air smelled of damp wood and decay. In the center stood a single chair, facing the wall. A figure sat in it, back turned to him. Long hair, tangled and dark, cascaded over the chair. Emma?
He took a step closer. “Emma?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart.
The figure didn’t move.
He reached out, placing a hand on the chair. Slowly, the figure began to turn, but as it did, Daniel’s flashlight went out again. The darkness was total. And in that moment, the whispering stopped, replaced by a cold breath on the back of his neck.
A voice, deeper than before, whispered into his ear: “Now, you’re mine.”
The last thing Daniel felt was a cold, skeletal hand closing around his wrist, pulling him into the endless dark.
The next morning, the townsfolk noticed Daniel’s car still parked outside the house, but there was no sign of him. The house remained silent, the attic door still locked from the inside. Only the mirror stood as a reminder of the many souls it had claimed, waiting for its next visitor, its next victim.
**Tales from the House That Hungers: Part 3**
The townspeople had long stopped venturing near the house after Daniel vanished. His disappearance was the last straw, sealing the mansion’s reputation as cursed. But the story of the house, the mirror, and those who disappeared inside became a grim fascination for one person—Amy, Emma’s younger sister. She had been only a child when Emma vanished, but the trauma of losing her sister had haunted her entire life.
Now an adult, Amy couldn’t shake the feeling that Emma wasn’t dead. Nightmares plagued her for years—visions of her sister calling out for help from behind the glass. The nightmares became more vivid after Daniel’s disappearance, almost as if the house were beckoning her back. Against her better judgment, Amy knew she had to face it. She had to go to the house, confront whatever dark forces resided there, and, if possible, save her sister.
One stormy evening, Amy arrived at the Victorian house, armed with nothing but a lantern and the memory of Emma’s smiling face. As she crossed the threshold, an overwhelming sense of dread settled over her. The house was eerily quiet, the only sound the soft creak of the floor beneath her feet.
She could feel it. The house *knew* she was there.
The rooms felt different now—colder, darker, as if something was watching her from the shadows. As Amy made her way through the house, she reached the stairs to the attic, her breath catching in her throat. This was it.
With trembling hands, she climbed the steps, each creak echoing like a warning. At the top, the attic door stood slightly ajar, as if it had been waiting for her. Slowly, she pushed it open.
The attic was almost unrecognizable. The dusty furniture and clutter were gone, replaced by rows of mirrors. Dozens of them, each slightly different in size and shape, lined the walls. And in the center of the room stood the largest mirror—the one that had trapped Emma all those years ago.
Amy’s heart raced as she approached the mirror. She could see her reflection, but something was wrong. The reflection was distorted, stretched, like it was being pulled toward the glass. Then, just as she had feared, she saw Emma. Her sister’s pale face appeared in the reflection, her eyes wide with terror, her mouth forming silent pleas for help.
Amy’s hand instinctively reached toward the glass. “Emma,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I’m here. I’m going to get you out.”
But as soon as her fingers touched the cold surface, the reflection shifted. Emma’s face twisted into a horrific grin, her eyes turning black as the reflection distorted further. The glass rippled like water, and before Amy could pull her hand away, something cold and wet wrapped around her wrist. She gasped and tried to yank her hand back, but the mirror’s grip was unrelenting.
The attic began to change around her. The walls groaned, shifting and bending as if the house itself were alive. Shadows seeped out from the corners, crawling along the floor and walls, swirling like smoke. The whispers returned—louder, angrier—filling the air with unintelligible, maddening sounds.
Suddenly, the glass cracked, sending jagged lines across the mirror. The room went silent, but the shadows in the attic seemed to move on their own, twisting into human-like forms with empty eyes and gaping mouths. One by one, the figures emerged from the mirrors, their dark, skeletal hands reaching for Amy.
She stumbled back, her pulse pounding in her ears. The shadows surrounded her, their whispers now clear. “Join us…” they hissed, their voices blending into one. “Join us… forever.”
Desperate, Amy searched for a way out, but the attic had transformed into a maze of mirrors. Every turn she made only led her deeper into the dark, endless reflections. Each mirror showed something worse than the last—her own face, distorted, twisted in pain, and her sister’s, hollow and lifeless, trapped in the eternal reflection.
In the center of the attic, the large mirror began to hum with a low, resonating sound. Amy could feel a force pulling her closer, as if the mirror itself were alive, hungry. She turned to run, but the attic had shifted again. The door was gone. The windows had vanished. She was trapped.
A voice called out—Emma’s voice. It echoed from behind the glass, soft but unmistakable. “Amy… help me…”
Amy turned toward the voice, her heart pounding. “Emma!” she cried. But something was wrong. The voice was distorted, deeper, like two voices speaking at once.
Then she saw it.
In the largest mirror, a figure began to emerge. It wasn’t Emma. It wasn’t human. The shadowy figure was tall and skeletal, its face a hollow void of darkness. Its long, spindly arms reached out, dragging itself through the broken glass, shards falling to the floor as it tore through the barrier between worlds. Its mouth opened, revealing rows of jagged, black teeth, and from its throat came a low, guttural growl.
Amy backed away, but the shadows closed in around her, blocking any escape. The creature from the mirror stretched out its hand, pointing directly at her, its eyes—if they could be called eyes—boring into her soul.
“You came for her,” the creature rasped, its voice like the sound of shattering glass. “Now… you will join her.”
Before Amy could scream, the creature lunged. Its skeletal hand closed around her throat, and everything went black.
When Amy awoke, she was no longer in the attic. She stood in a hallway of endless mirrors, each reflecting her face—twisted in fear, her eyes hollow and dark. She tried to move, but her body wouldn’t obey. She was trapped, a prisoner behind the glass, just like her sister.
In the real world, the attic was silent once more. The mirrors stood still, their surfaces unbroken, but if you looked closely, you could see them—Emma, Daniel, and now Amy—forever frozen behind the glass, their silent screams etched into the reflection.
And somewhere in the house, in the deepest shadow, the creature waited, watching… for the next soul foolish enough to come looking for the truth.
The house never let anyone leave.
Not really.
**Tales from the House That Hungers: Part 4**
The village surrounding the old house had gone quiet about the disappearances, preferring to forget the horrors rather than confront them. But some stories never die, and as whispers fade, curiosity brews in the minds of those brave enough—or foolish enough—to investigate.
One such person was Claire. A paranormal investigator and skeptic, she had heard about the mysterious house and the vanished people, now legends wrapped in local superstition. What intrigued her wasn’t the missing residents, but the strange reports that followed: flickering lights at night, faint screams carried on the wind, and, most unsettling, the brief sightings of pale faces watching from the windows.
Claire wasn’t easily frightened. She had spent years debunking haunted locations, but the house—this house—felt different. She had planned an overnight investigation, equipped with infrared cameras, recording devices, and tools to measure any unusual activity. Her goal was clear: to capture hard evidence of either a natural explanation or something she couldn’t yet understand.
The night she arrived, the sky was a deep, starless black. The air was heavy with the scent of impending rain, but it was calm—too calm. As Claire stood before the house, her camera in hand, a shiver ran down her spine. She tried to brush it off, chalking it up to nerves, but deep down, something about this house didn’t feel right.
Pushing open the front door, she entered. The air inside was thick, as if it had been stagnant for decades. The wooden floors groaned beneath her feet, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Claire set up her equipment, placing cameras in each room, and finally, the attic. She knew from her research that this was where it all happened, where Emma, Daniel, and Amy had last been seen—or at least, where they had last existed in the world of the living.
As she set up her final camera in the attic, she couldn’t help but feel the oppressive weight of the room. The mirrors, dusty and cracked, stood in their usual haunting array, but Claire felt them staring back at her. One by one, she covered them with cloth, leaving only the largest mirror exposed—the one where all the nightmares seemed to begin.
The night began quietly. Hours passed with nothing but the sound of wind brushing against the old walls. Claire watched the monitors carefully, flicking through different camera feeds, waiting for anything that might indicate activity.
But then, at midnight, the attic camera flickered.
At first, it was subtle—a soft static, as if the signal were weakening. Then it cut out entirely, the screen going black for a full minute. When it came back on, Claire leaned forward, her heart skipping a beat. The cloths she had draped over the mirrors had fallen. They were lying on the floor, the mirrors uncovered, reflecting the empty attic.
Except… it wasn’t empty.
Standing in the far corner, just out of the camera’s reach, was a figure—a dark shape barely visible, its form bending the shadows around it. Claire’s pulse quickened. She switched to infrared, hoping to get a clearer view, but the figure remained elusive, flickering between the edges of the frame.
And then, slowly, it turned.
Its face was not human. Hollow, sunken eyes peered directly into the camera, and its mouth stretched unnaturally wide, like a grotesque grin. The thing took a step toward the mirror, its bony fingers reaching for the glass. As it touched the surface, the entire monitor blinked off again.
Claire’s breath caught in her throat. For a moment, the silence in the room was overwhelming. Then a loud *thud* came from upstairs—the attic. It was as if something heavy had fallen. She grabbed her flashlight and reluctantly made her way up, camera rolling, knowing she had to see for herself what was happening.
At the top of the stairs, the air was colder, almost freezing. Her breath misted in the dim light as she reached the attic door. It was cracked open just enough to let the shadows leak out. Every instinct screamed at her to turn back, but Claire was a skeptic—she couldn’t believe in monsters. There had to be a logical explanation.
Pushing the door open, her flashlight swept across the room. The mirrors gleamed, the reflections warping unnaturally in the light. The large mirror in the center was cracked even more deeply than before, but something stood in front of it now—a figure, hunched over, facing away from her.
It was a woman, long dark hair tangled and matted, her dress torn and covered in dust. Claire’s breath hitched. It looked like… Amy. But how could that be possible?
“Amy?” Claire called out, her voice trembling. The figure didn’t respond, but it twitched unnervingly. Slowly, Amy’s head began to turn, far too slowly for anything human. When Claire caught sight of her face, she stumbled back. It wasn’t the face of her sister, but a grotesque mockery—pale, hollow, her mouth twisted into a grin that stretched unnaturally from ear to ear.
And then, Amy began to laugh.
The sound was wrong, too high-pitched, like nails scraping glass. It echoed through the room, bouncing off the mirrors, and the reflections in the glass began to ripple. Claire’s pulse pounded in her ears as the shadows in the room came alive. Figures emerged from every mirror, their bodies malformed and broken, crawling toward her, their whispering voices rising into a maddening chorus.
She turned to run, but the attic door slammed shut, trapping her inside.
Behind her, the large mirror began to crack open further, the glass fracturing until a dark, gaping hole appeared. From within, a cold wind blew, carrying with it the smell of death and decay. And from the depths of the mirror, something ancient and hungry stirred.
A hand, black as pitch and twice as long as any human’s, reached through the shattered glass. It clawed at the ground, dragging with it a massive, shadowy form. Claire watched in horror as the creature emerged, its body a writhing mass of shadow and bone, its glowing yellow eyes locking onto hers.
“You…” it hissed, its voice like the shattering of glass. “You are the key.”
Before Claire could scream, the shadows enveloped her, pulling her toward the mirror. She fought, kicking and thrashing, but it was futile. The thing’s grip was cold, merciless. It dragged her closer to the mirror, and as she was pulled through the broken glass, she caught one last glimpse of her own reflection.
Her face was gone, replaced by the hollow, empty stare of the figures she had seen before. She was no longer Claire.
She was *trapped*.
—
Weeks later, the villagers noticed the house had changed. The windows that had once been grim and dark were now lit, faintly glowing with an unnatural light. And in the attic, if anyone dared look up, they might catch a glimpse of a new face staring back at them through the glass. Silent, pleading, but beyond saving.
The house had claimed another.
And it was still hungry.
**Tales from the House That Hungers: Part 5**
Months had passed since Claire’s disappearance. The house was now more infamous than ever, a source of whispered dread in the village. Local authorities had sealed it off, but that didn’t stop the rumors. Some said the house had grown darker, as if it were feeding off the fear it caused. Others swore they heard voices late at night, crying for help or, worse, laughing in the wind.
Among those fascinated by the house was Dr. Henry Archer, a seasoned psychologist with a specialization in trauma and paranormal obsession. Henry wasn’t just interested in ghost stories—he believed every legend had a psychological explanation. After studying Claire’s case, he concluded that her fate, like that of Emma, Daniel, and Amy, was a psychological breakdown induced by isolation and hysteria.
Determined to prove his theory, Dr. Archer prepared for his own expedition to the house. Armed with skepticism, his journal, and a digital recorder, he was certain that the horrors in the house were nothing more than manifestations of the mind—a delusion passed down by rumor and fear. His plan was simple: spend one night inside and document his findings.
The sky was a deep violet when Dr. Archer arrived. The house loomed before him, its silhouette jagged and warped against the fading light. Ignoring the sensation of unease crawling up his spine, he entered, the door groaning shut behind him as though the house had welcomed him inside.
The first few hours passed uneventfully. He recorded his observations, pacing from room to room, noting the dust, the stale air, and the eerie quiet. He spoke into his recorder, his voice calm and measured.
“No immediate signs of paranormal activity. The house is in obvious disrepair. Psychological projections from previous occupants likely influenced by the overwhelming isolation. Nothing more.”
As midnight approached, Dr. Archer’s rational mind began to struggle against a rising sense of dread. He climbed the stairs to the attic, knowing that this was the heart of the house’s dark reputation. He believed that facing the attic directly would debunk the final layer of superstition surrounding the place.
The attic door was slightly ajar, as if it had been waiting for him.
He pushed it open, expecting nothing more than dust and broken mirrors. But the room was different now—eerily clean, as though someone had been maintaining it. The mirrors were perfectly arranged along the walls, gleaming despite the lack of light.
Dr. Archer’s pulse quickened. He tried to remain calm, but something felt *wrong*. It was as if the air itself was watching him.
He approached the largest mirror in the center of the room, the infamous one that had supposedly claimed so many lives. His reflection stared back, unremarkable. He spoke into the recorder again, his voice unsteady.
“No signs of unusual activity. The mirrors may have been placed here to create a disorienting effect. The mind can—”
Suddenly, a soft sound interrupted him. He paused, listening. It was faint at first, like distant whispering, but it grew louder, surrounding him. The words were indecipherable, but there was something undeniably human in the cadence—voices, overlapping, as if coming from all directions.
His heart raced. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “It’s… auditory hallucination,” he muttered, trying to ground himself in logic. “Brought on by sensory deprivation.”
Then, the whispering stopped.
In the heavy silence, Dr. Archer turned back to the mirror—and froze. His reflection was no longer his own. Standing behind the glass was Claire, her face twisted in a silent scream, her eyes wide with terror. Behind her were Amy, Daniel, and Emma, their hollow faces watching him, trapped, pleading.
Dr. Archer stumbled back, dropping the recorder. “No, this isn’t real… It’s not…”
The glass in the mirror rippled, as though it were liquid. Slowly, Claire raised her hand from behind the glass, pressing it against the surface, as if trying to break through. The others followed, their hands rising in unison, pushing against the barrier that held them captive.
Dr. Archer’s breath came in ragged gasps. He turned to run, but the attic door slammed shut with a deafening bang. The whispering began again, louder this time, the voices urgent and filled with desperation.
“We need you…” they cried, their voices blending into one. “Free us…”
Suddenly, the largest mirror cracked, a jagged line splintering across its surface. Dark tendrils of shadow seeped through the cracks, reaching toward him. Dr. Archer backed into the far corner of the attic, his mind reeling. He felt the cold grip of panic, something he hadn’t experienced in years.
And then, out of the darkness, a new voice emerged—one deeper, older, filled with a chilling malice. It echoed inside his mind.
“You think you know the mind,” the voice hissed, “but this place knows you better.”
Dr. Archer’s knees buckled. The voice wasn’t coming from the shadows, nor from the trapped spirits. It was coming from *within* him, gnawing at the edges of his sanity.
The shadows slithered across the floor, pulling themselves toward the cracked mirror, and from the broken glass emerged the same skeletal figure that had appeared to Claire. Its eyes, glowing yellow, fixed on Dr. Archer, who could barely breathe as the creature crawled toward him.
“No…” Archer whispered, his disbelief shattered. “This can’t be real…”
The figure smiled, its jagged teeth gleaming in the dim light. It reached out a long, skeletal hand, brushing his face.
“You’ve spent your life unraveling others’ minds,” it whispered, “but you’ve never understood your own.”
Dr. Archer’s thoughts raced. He felt the world spinning, as if the floor had fallen away beneath him. Desperation clawed at him, but his training kicked in. He wasn’t just an investigator—he understood how to manipulate the mind.
Suddenly, he realized the key: the house fed on belief. Everyone who had entered believed in its power, and that belief had given it life. But if he refused to believe…
In a final act of defiance, Dr. Archer stood tall, staring into the creature’s eyes. “You’re not real,” he whispered, forcing his voice steady. “None of this is real.”
The creature’s smile faltered. The shadows around the room flickered, uncertain. Dr. Archer pressed on, louder now. “This house is nothing but a manifestation of fear. I don’t believe in you. You don’t exist!”
The attic trembled, the mirrors shaking violently. The creature snarled, recoiling as the cracks in the glass began to heal. The shadows shrank back, retreating into the corners of the room. The whispering stopped.
Dr. Archer felt a surge of triumph. He had done it. He had defeated the house.
But just as he turned toward the door, a voice, soft and mocking, echoed behind him.
“You’re right,” it said. “We don’t exist…”
Archer froze, his heart dropping.
“…but neither do you.”
Before he could react, the floor beneath him dissolved into blackness. He fell, tumbling into a void of swirling shadows and shattered reflections. The last thing he saw was his own face in the mirror—warped, distorted, and *erased*.
—
The next morning, the house stood silent once more, as it always did. The village would soon hear about Dr. Archer’s disappearance, adding another layer to the legend.
But something had changed inside the house.
If one were to look closely at the largest mirror in the attic, they would no longer see Emma, Claire, or Amy. Instead, they would see Dr. Archer’s reflection—standing still, a silent scream frozen on his lips, his eyes wide with the realization that, in trying to conquer the house, he had lost something far greater.
His own reality.
**Tales from the House That Hungers: Part 6 ( Finale )**
The next morning, the house stood as it always had—still, silent, brooding against the horizon. From the outside, nothing seemed amiss. No villagers approached, and no one spoke of Dr. Archer, though rumors would soon swirl about yet another missing soul. But inside, something had fundamentally shifted.
The mirrors in the attic, once cracked and dusty, were now pristine, their surfaces smooth and gleaming. The house had absorbed its latest victim, and its hunger was, for now, sated. Dr. Archer’s reflection stood silently in the largest mirror, his face twisted in a frozen scream, joining the others who had come before him. He was trapped behind the glass, forever staring out into a world he could no longer touch.
The house was quiet. But deep within its walls, beneath the surface, something stirred.
As night fell and the moonlight bathed the house in an eerie glow, a single sound broke the silence—a soft creaking, like the sound of an old door swinging open. But there were no footsteps, no sign of anyone entering.
Then, from the largest mirror, a new reflection appeared—someone unexpected.
It was *you*.
The mirror showed your face, staring back at you through the glass, though you had never set foot inside that house. You hadn’t been there, hadn’t dared to approach. Yet there you were, behind the glass, watching helplessly as your reflection grinned, its eyes darkening into hollow, empty voids.
You reach out instinctively, but there’s nothing in front of you—just the cold air. The reflection, though, moves on its own. It presses its hand against the glass and mouths two words, soft but unmistakable:
“*You’re next.*”
Before you can react, the image fades, leaving only your own reflection in the screen or mirror before you—ordinary, unchanged. Yet, somewhere deep inside, a shiver runs through you.
The house, now aware of you, *remembers*. And though you may never step foot inside, some part of it is waiting.
For *you*.
