In the quaint town of Eldridge Hollow, nestled between rolling hills and whispering woods, stood an old Victorian house that was shunned by the townsfolk. Stories of its dark past echoed through the streets like a chilling wind, and no one dared approach it. But for Lydia, an aspiring journalist hungry for a good story, the mystery of the house was too tantalizing to resist.
Lydia had grown up hearing tales of the mansion’s original owner, Abigail Crowe, a reclusive woman rumored to have dabbled in dark magic. When Abigail mysteriously vanished one stormy night over a century ago, the townspeople claimed she had cursed her home, ensuring that anyone who lived there would meet a grim fate. Over the years, several families had moved in, but all had fled in terror, leaving behind only whispers of strange noises, flickering lights, and shadowy figures.
Determined to uncover the truth, Lydia approached the mansion one autumn afternoon. The air was crisp, and a sense of foreboding hung heavy around her. As she stepped onto the creaking porch, the wooden boards groaned under her weight, as if warning her to turn back. Ignoring the instinctive fear creeping into her heart, she pushed open the door, which protested loudly as it swung on its rusty hinges.
Inside, the house was a time capsule, frozen in the 19th century. Dust-covered furniture stood in disarray, and faded portraits lined the walls, their eyes seemingly following Lydia as she walked. She set up her recording equipment and began her investigation, her heart pounding in her chest. With each room she explored, the atmosphere grew thicker, and an unsettling sensation crawled up her spine.
In the parlor, she stumbled upon a journal, its pages yellowed and fragile. The handwriting was elegant yet frantic, detailing Abigail's descent into madness. The last entries spoke of a malevolent spirit haunting her, an entity that whispered terrible secrets and demanded her soul. Lydia felt a chill, but the journalist in her compelled her to dig deeper.
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from upstairs. Lydia's heart raced as she hesitated, torn between fear and the pursuit of her story. Taking a deep breath, she ascended the staircase, the wood creaking ominously beneath her feet. At the end of the hallway, she found a door slightly ajar, and a flickering light spilled into the darkened corridor.
Pushing the door open, she was met with a sight that froze her in place. The room was filled with strange symbols drawn in what appeared to be blood. At the center stood a mirror, its surface swirling like a dark storm. Lydia felt an irresistible pull toward it. As she approached, the reflection that stared back was not her own. Instead, it was Abigail, her face twisted in anguish, pleading for help.
Lydia gasped, stepping back, but the mirror seemed to draw her closer. “Help me,” Abigail's voice echoed, filling the room. “Break the curse.”
Lydia’s mind raced. She remembered the journal, the details about the malevolent spirit. It was said that the spirit could only be defeated by confronting it with the truth of its own pain. She needed to find a way to connect with Abigail, to understand her torment.
Gathering her courage, Lydia spoke, “What happened to you, Abigail? Why are you trapped here?” The room grew colder, and the flickering light dimmed as a gust of wind whipped through, extinguishing the candles.
“I was betrayed,” Abigail's voice trembled through the air, laced with sorrow. “My own family turned against me. They thought me a witch.”
Lydia felt a surge of empathy for the woman trapped in the mirror. “You’re not alone anymore,” she said softly. “Tell me what I need to do.”
With each word Abigail spoke, the symbols in the room began to fade, and the air grew lighter. As the last symbol disappeared, the mirror shattered, and with it, the dark energy that had enveloped the house for generations began to lift.
Lydia stumbled back, heart racing, as the oppressive weight lifted. In its place, a warm light filled the room, and for a brief moment, Lydia felt a sense of peace wash over her. Abigail’s spirit, now freed, smiled gratefully before fading into the light.
The house was no longer cursed. Lydia emerged from the mansion, her heart full of hope and purpose. The townsfolk, once fearful, would now have a story of redemption instead of dread. As she walked away, she knew that she had not only uncovered the truth but had helped heal a long-buried wound.
About the Creator
What Nobody Warns You About Growing Up
Nobody warns you that growing up doesn’t happen all at once. There’s no clear moment when childhood ends and adulthood begins. It sneaks up on you quietly, disguised as routine, responsibility, and small decisions that suddenly feel heavy. When we’re young, we imagine growing up as freedom. We think it means staying up late, earning money, making our own choices, and living life on our terms. Adults look powerful from the outside—confident, certain, and in control. What nobody tells you is that most adults are still figuring things out, just like you were, only with higher stakes. One of the first shocks of growing up is realizing that no one is coming to save you. As a child, there is always someone to fix things—parents, teachers, elders. A bad grade can be explained. A mistake can be forgiven easily. But as you grow older, the safety net thins. Mistakes start costing time, money, relationships, and sometimes self-respect. You learn that accountability isn’t just a word; it’s a weight you carry every day. Nobody warns you about how lonely growing up can feel. Even when surrounded by people, there’s a quiet distance that forms. Friends you once spoke to every day slowly drift away. Not because of anger or betrayal, but because life pulls everyone in different directions. Jobs, families, priorities—all rearrange your circle without asking for permission. You stop expecting people to stay forever and start appreciating those who do. Another thing no one talks about is how often you’ll doubt yourself. As a child, you dream without limits. You want to be everything at once—successful, admired, fearless. Growing up introduces comparison. You see others moving faster, earning more, achieving milestones you haven’t reached yet. Social media makes it worse, turning life into a scoreboard you never agreed to play on. You learn that confidence isn’t permanent; it’s something you rebuild again and again. Growing up also teaches you that hard work doesn’t always pay off immediately. You can do everything right and still feel stuck. Effort doesn’t guarantee results, and patience becomes one of the hardest lessons. Nobody warns you how exhausting it is to keep going when motivation fades and only discipline remains. Yet this is where growth actually happens—in the moments when quitting feels easier than continuing. Then there’s the emotional part no one prepares you for. You start seeing your parents as human beings, not just authority figures. You notice their fears, regrets, and limitations. Sometimes you understand them more; sometimes it hurts to realize they didn’t have all the answers either. Growing up often means forgiving people—not because they apologized, but because holding on to resentment is too heavy. You’re also not warned about how your definition of success changes. It stops being about applause and starts becoming about peace. A quiet mind. A stable income. A few people who genuinely care about you. You learn that happiness isn’t loud or dramatic; it’s often found in ordinary moments—coming home tired but safe, laughing at something small, sleeping without anxiety. One of the hardest truths of growing up is learning to let go. Let go of versions of yourself that no longer fit. Let go of people who can’t grow with you. Let go of timelines you once believed were fixed. This letting go feels like loss, even when it’s necessary. Nobody warns you that growth and grief often walk together. Yet, despite all this, growing up gives you something valuable—clarity. You begin to understand your boundaries. You learn when to say no without explaining yourself. You start choosing what matters instead of chasing everything. Strength stops looking like loud confidence and starts looking like quiet resilience. What nobody warns you about growing up is that it will break you in small ways—and rebuild you stronger in others. You’ll lose some innocence but gain wisdom. You’ll trade certainty for understanding. And even on days when you miss the simplicity of who you once were, you’ll realize you’re proud of who you’re becoming. Growing up isn’t about having everything figured out. It’s about learning how to keep going, even when you don’t. And maybe that’s the lesson no one warns you about—adulthood isn’t a destination. It’s a continuous act of becoming.
By Hanif Ullah 6 days ago in Fiction
Where's the Glory?
In breaking news, rehabilitated Republican Senator Johnnie Johnson (Pronouns: HE, HIM, HIS) called a press conference from the Men’s room of the New Orleans Louis Armstrong International Airport, Concourse B, across from the Ignatius Reilly’s Lucky Dog stand. The Senator had just returned from a sexual reorientation rehabilitation program in Memphis, TN after being publically disgraced at a Buckee’s Truckstop restroom soliciting sex from an undercover cop three months ago. He is a founding member of the Reformed Christians for Christ, a conservative, pro-family and ex-gay advocacy group. In the spirit of being reborn, Senator Johnson invited reporters to marvel at his plans for a major remodeling of airport bathrooms.
By Cathy Schieffelin7 days ago in Humor
Comments (4)
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