The Old Victorian
The old Victorian house stood on a hill overlooking the town, its windows like vacant eyes staring out at the world. Locals whispered about it, calling it the "Harwood House," and said it was haunted by the ghost of a woman who had died tragically within its walls.Elias, a paranormal investigator with a reputation for debunking myths, had heard the stories and decided to spend a night in the house. He wanted to prove that the tales were nothing more than folklore and superstition. Armed with his equipment—cameras, EMF readers, and audio recorders—he entered the house as dusk settled, casting long, eerie shadows.The interior was just as unsettling as the exterior. Dust lay thick on every surface, and the air was heavy with the scent of decay. Elias set up his equipment in the main bedroom, the room where the woman was said to have died. A large, ornate mirror dominated one wall, its glass clouded with age.As the night wore on, Elias found nothing. His EMF reader showed no unusual activity, his cameras captured only dust motes, and his audio recorder picked up nothing but the creaks and groans of the old house settling. He began to think the locals were wrong. Just as he was about to pack up, he glanced at the mirror.A coldness washed over him, a sense of being watched. He turned, but he was alone in the room. He looked back at the mirror. His reflection stared back, but something was off. The eyes in the reflection seemed… too intense, too alive. A shiver ran down his spine. He told himself it was just his imagination, the tricks his mind was playing on him in the dimly lit room.He continued his vigil, but he couldn't shake the feeling of unease. Every time he looked at the mirror, his reflection seemed slightly different. Its smile was wider, its eyes darker, its posture subtly shifted. He tried to rationalize it, blaming the flickering candlelight, the shadows, but deep down, he knew something was wrong.Suddenly, the temperature in the room plummeted. Elias's breath fogged in the air. The candle flames danced wildly, casting grotesque shapes on the walls. A whisper slithered through the silence, a woman's voice, barely audible, saying, "Join me."Elias's heart pounded in his chest. He grabbed his equipment, his hands trembling. He had to get out of the house. He turned to leave, but as he passed the mirror, his reflection lunged. Its hand, elongated and skeletal, reached out from the glass, grabbing his arm with a grip that was ice-cold and impossibly strong.He cried out, pulling with all his might, but the reflection held him fast. The whisper turned into a moan, then a shriek. The room spun, the walls melting away, replaced by a swirling vortex of darkness. Elias felt himself being pulled into the mirror, into the cold, empty void beyond.He struggled, his mind screaming in terror, but it was no use. The reflection was too strong. As he was pulled into the glass, he saw his own face contorted in a silent scream, a mirror image of his own horror. Then, the darkness consumed him.The next morning, the locals found Elias's car parked outside the Harwood House. The front door was open, but Elias was nowhere to be found. His equipment lay scattered on the floor of the main bedroom, but there was no sign of him. The mirror on the wall was intact, its surface smooth and undisturbed. But those who dared to look closely said they could see a faint, distorted figure trapped within, forever reaching out, forever trying to escape. The Harwood House remained, its secrets buried deep within its walls, a chilling testament to the fact that some myths are more than just folklore.
