The House Next Door

The Grayson house wasn’t just a house. It was a presence, a living thing nestled at the end of Black Hollow’s Maplewood Lane. Its towering Victorian frame seemed to inhale the sunlight, its peeling paint blending into the perpetual gray of the overcast sky. Even the birds avoided its roof, their songs stopping abruptly as they flew past.

When Lila Morton first arrived in Black Hollow, she had dismissed the house as an eyesore, an old mansion waiting for its eventual collapse. Her new cottage sat next door, its cheerful yellow shutters and well-kept flower beds a stark contrast to the brooding structure beside it.

Lila didn’t come to Black Hollow for mystery. She came to escape.

Her career as a crime novelist had been on a steady decline for years, and her last book barely sold enough to cover her rent in the city. After her publisher suggested a “change of scenery” to reignite her creativity, she’d cashed out her savings and rented the small, picturesque house in the middle of nowhere. Black Hollow, with its cobblestone streets and quiet charm, seemed perfect.

The Grayson house, however, was not part of the plan.


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Small Town, Big Secrets

Black Hollow was the kind of town where everyone knew everyone else—and their business. From the moment Lila arrived, the locals treated her with polite curiosity, as though she were a guest at a party where she didn’t belong.

The warnings started on her first day.

“You’ll want to avoid that house next door,” said Tom, the gruff owner of the local hardware store.

“Oh, don’t scare her,” Mrs. Cartwright, her next-door neighbor, chimed in. “Just keep to yourself, dear. The Graysons don’t bother anyone, and it’s best you return the favor.”

When Lila asked what happened to the family, Mrs. Cartwright shrugged. “They’re private people. Always have been. But they’ve lived there as long as I can remember. Haven’t seen any of them in years, though.”

Tom lowered his voice. “There’s something wrong with that place.” He hesitated, as if weighing his words. “People around here don’t talk about it, but if I were you, I’d stay away.”

Lila nodded politely but dismissed their warnings as small-town superstition. Yet, as the days passed, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the Grayson house wasn’t just abandoned—it was waiting.


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Lila’s Restlessness

Lila threw herself into her writing, determined to finish her new novel. Her story was supposed to follow a detective unraveling a small-town murder, but each time she tried to write, her thoughts drifted back to the Grayson house.

Her writer’s block became an obsession. She began taking long walks past the house, lingering just long enough to catch glimpses of its shadowy windows. She sketched it in the margins of her notebook, her fingers tracing the jagged lines of its gables.

The house seeped into her dreams. She dreamed of footsteps echoing through empty hallways, of whispers calling her name. She woke with her heart pounding, the image of the Grayson house burned into her mind.


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Unraveling the Mystery

Lila’s curiosity soon extended beyond her notebook. She started asking the locals about the Graysons, but the responses were frustratingly vague.

“They’re a tragedy, really,” Mrs. Cartwright finally admitted over tea one afternoon. “Used to be such a lovely family. But after Nathan—oh, the youngest boy—passed, well…” She trailed off. “Some people say grief changes you. Others say it draws something darker.”

“What do you mean by ‘darker’?” Lila pressed.

Mrs. Cartwright shook her head, her lips pursed. “Just leave it alone, dear. Some stories aren’t meant to be told.”

But Lila couldn’t leave it alone. She scoured the local library, poring over old newspapers and town records. The Graysons were once prominent members of Black Hollow society, hosting elaborate parties in their grand home. But after Nathan drowned in the backyard pond, the family withdrew from the world.

Over the years, neighbors reported strange occurrences: flickering lights, ghostly figures in the windows, strange sounds in the night. Some claimed the Graysons dabbled in the occult, desperate to bring their son back.


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The Pale Girl

One rainy night, as Lila sat on her porch with a mug of tea, she noticed a flicker of light in the Grayson house. She froze, watching as a dim glow illuminated the attic window.

A girl stood there.

She was pale and thin, her dark hair hanging in damp strands around her face. Her eyes—deep, dark voids—met Lila’s across the yard. The girl raised a hand, pressing it against the glass.

“Hello?” Lila called, her voice barely above a whisper.

The girl tilted her head, her lips parting as if to speak. Then the light went out, leaving the house in darkness.


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Into the House

The following days were a blur. Lila’s journal filled with notes and sketches of the Grayson house, her observations becoming more frantic. She began hearing whispers at night, faint voices calling her name.

When she found muddy footprints leading from the Grayson yard to her front porch, she knew she couldn’t ignore the house any longer.

Armed with a flashlight, she crossed the overgrown hedge and climbed the creaking steps to the front door. It opened with a groan, as if the house were exhaling.

Inside, the air was damp and heavy, thick with the scent of decay. Dust blanketed every surface, but the furniture was eerily arranged, as though the family had only just left.

She found a photo album on the coffee table. The first few pages were ordinary, showing the Graysons at picnics and parties. But as she flipped through, the photos became distorted. Faces blurred, eyes blackened, and in the final picture, the family stood together, their hands reaching out toward the camera, their mouths frozen in silent screams.


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The Basement’s Secrets

A faint creak drew Lila toward a door beneath the staircase. She descended slowly, the air growing colder with each step.

The basement was unlike the rest of the house. Candles burned in a circle around a large, ornate mirror framed in twisted iron. The surface of the mirror rippled, showing not Lila’s reflection, but a landscape of shadows and fog.

As she stared, her reflection appeared—but it wasn’t her.

The figure in the mirror was pale and hollow-eyed, its lips curling into a twisted grin. It raised a hand and pressed it against the glass.

Behind her, she heard the whispers rise to a deafening roar.


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The New Face

The next morning, Maplewood Lane was quiet as always. But neighbors who glanced toward the Grayson house noticed something strange.

A new light flickered in the attic window, and a new face appeared behind the glass.

It was Lila, her eyes dark and empty, her lips stretched into a cold, lifeless smile.

The house had claimed her. And now it waited for its next victim.