I Spent the Night in the Most Haunted Place in My City — I Still Regret It

Everyone in my city knows about the "Old Mirza Mansion". Nestled at the end of a forgotten road, shrouded in overgrown trees and silence, it's the kind of place even GPS avoids. Growing up, we heard all kinds of stories about it—that a woman jumped to her death from the second floor, that the walls bleed during the full moon, and that once you enter, something follows you home.

I never believed any of it. Until last October.

It started out harmlessly enough. My friends and I were on our usual late-night drive around town. We had just grabbed some chai and were trading ghost stories to pass the time. Someone brought up Mirza Mansion, and everyone fell silent. That place still had that effect, even among grown men.

I laughed. "Seriously, you guys still believe in all that? Come on. I could spend the whole night there and sleep like a baby."

That's all it took. Within minutes, they were daring me to prove it. The deal was simple: spend the night alone in the mansion, no phones, no contact, and they'd cover my next three months of fuel.

Easy money, I thought.

I went home, grabbed a flashlight, power bank, water bottle, a small Bluetooth speaker (because I wasn't about to do this in complete silence), and an old sleeping bag. I even joked with my mom that I was going on a spiritual retreat. She didn’t laugh.

I reached the gates of Mirza Mansion at 10:47 PM. The air felt thick, like it hadn't been moved in years. The gate creaked as I pushed it open, and the sound echoed unnaturally loud into the night. A shiver ran down my spine—just nerves, I told myself.

The mansion was worse than I'd imagined. Windows shattered, paint peeling, vines crawling up the facade like claws. As I stepped in, the air turned cold. Colder than it should be for October. Dust swirled in the beam of my flashlight, and every step I took echoed like I was walking through a cathedral of the dead.

I explored the ground floor—a collapsed sofa in the living room, broken furniture, torn curtains. Then, in one room, I found something odd: a small child’s doll. It sat in the middle of the floor, one eye missing, face partially melted. It hadn't been touched by weather or dust. It was just... there. Fresh. Waiting.

I set up camp in the main hall. Spread out the sleeping bag and turned on some low music to make the atmosphere less tense. Around 12:30 AM, I was starting to doze off when I heard it.

Humming.

Soft. Almost like a lullaby. It was coming from upstairs.

I froze. My first instinct was to rationalize it—maybe a cat? Maybe someone playing a prank? But the tune was too clear, too steady. It was human.

I turned off the speaker and listened. The humming stopped.

Then came the footsteps.

Upstairs. Slow, deliberate. Like someone pacing. Then silence. Then faster footsteps running toward the staircase.

I jumped up, grabbed my flashlight, and aimed it down the hallway. Nothing. But I heard breathing—just not mine. It was raspy, close.

I shouted, "Who's there?" My voice cracked and bounced off the walls. No answer.

My heart pounded as I backed into a corner. Then, without warning, my flashlight started flickering before going out completely. Total darkness.

That’s when I saw her.

She didn’t appear in front of me. No. She appeared in the mirror on the wall behind me—the one I hadn’t noticed earlier. Her face was pale, eyes hollow, lips sewn shut with black thread. Her hair floated as if she were underwater.

She raised a hand and pointed—slowly, deliberately—behind me.

I turned.

There was no one there. But the wall had three deep scratches, like fingernails dragging across stone.

I didn’t wait for more. I ran. Tripped over my sleeping bag, dropped my speaker, and crashed through the hallway until I burst out of the front door and into the open night.

I didn’t stop running until I reached the gate. My hands were shaking as I fumbled with the lock. My friends, parked a few meters down the road, saw me and rushed over.

"You okay, man? What happened?"

I couldn't speak. My throat was dry, and my eyes couldn’t focus. I just got in the car and sat in silence as we drove away.

That night haunts me.

Over the next few days, I couldn’t sleep. I heard the humming in my room. Mirrors terrified me. I even dreamt of her—the girl with stitched lips, standing in the corner of my room, watching.

One night, I woke up to find my bedroom mirror fogged up—even though the fan was on. Written in the fog were three words: "Still watching you."

I smashed every mirror in the house. My mom was furious until I explained, and even then, she didn’t look me in the eye for a full week.

I tried burning the clothes I wore that night. I tried praying. I tried ignoring it. But it doesn’t go away.

Even now, months later, I hear the humming. Not all the time, but enough to remind me: she knows. And she remembers.

So if you're ever dared to spend a night in some "haunted" place, think twice. Not because of what you might see.

But because of what might follow you home.

Some doors, once opened, never close again.