I AM ALONE

You may choose an eerie, mysterious wooded area or a solitary figure gazing into the darkness—elements that evoke feelings of loneliness and suspense. If you are using Unsplash, search for keywords such as “isolation,” “mystery,” or “dark woodland.” Remember to credit the photographer appropriately.

The silence is overwhelming.

It is not the comforting form of silence—the kind that accompanies a peaceful morning or a quiet library. This silence is oppressive, pressing against my skin like an unseen weight.

I don’t recognize how long I’ve been here. The days and nights blend, dissolving into an endless fog. There is no clock, no sound, no movement—only me.

I attempt to remember how I arrived here; however, my thoughts slip away like mist through my fingers. I am in a house; that much I know. It is not a home, but rather a structure—cold, empty, and devoid of purpose. The walls stretch into an endless void, and the air is heavy with the scent of damp wood and something else... something putrid.

I call out, but there is no solution.

The words bounce back at me, swallowed by the very partitions that confine me. Am I truly alone? Or is something right here, lurking just beyond my sight?

I shudder at the thought.

The Rooms That Lead Nowhere

I walk, my bare feet sinking into the dust-covered floorboards. Each step sends a shiver up my spine.

The hallway seems endless. I turn corners and explore nooks, encountering doorways that lead only to more hallways and additional doors. The architecture is nonsensical, as if someone built this space without purpose or sound judgment.

I realize this residence, but I am unsure about it.

A flash of memory strikes me like lightning—a reflection that isn’t my own, accompanied by a whisper behind me.

I spin around. There is nothing.

My breath quickens, and my palms tremble.

I am alone.

The Sound That Should Not Exist

Hours—perhaps even days—pass, and then I finally listen to it.

A sound.

A faint scratching sound, reminiscent of nails against wood, reverberates through the halls—slow and deliberate. It seems to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once.

I am frozen.

The sound has stopped.

My pulse pounds against my ribs. I swallow hard, my throat dry. “Hello?” My voice comes out as a faint whisper.

Silence.

And then—faucet... tap... faucet.

A knock echoed from the door at the end of the hall.

I don’t want to move. Every instinct in my body screams at me to turn back, to run. But there is nowhere to go. The hallways are infinite, looping in on themselves like a maze with no exit.

I should open the door.

What Lies Beyond

With trembling arms, I reach for the deal. The cold metal bites into my palm.

I turn it.

The door creaks open, revealing darkness—a void, a nothingness so absolute that it seems to swallow the light spilling in from the hallway.

A voice calls out—my voice.

But I didn't speak.

My mirrored image stands just beyond the threshold, gazing at me. Her eyes—my eyes—seem wrong. They are too dark, too vacant. She smiles, but it is no longer a human smile.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.

I whispered in response.

She extends her hand, beckoning and inviting.

Something within me shifts. A deep, primal anxiety claws at my chest, urging me to flee.

And yet, I leap forward.

I have no other place to go.

Because I am alone.