The Shadows of Blackwood Valley

Claire stood in front of the looming Blackwood House just after midnight, her breath misting in the chilly air. The mansion was old, the windows like empty eyes staring out into the dark, the iron gates rusted and creaking as if they had been untouched for years. Although Claire had only been to this small town for a weekend, she felt compelled to look into the rumors about Blackwood House from the locals. They spoke of a curse, of strange disappearances that stretched back over a century, of people who ventured inside the house and never returned.

However, Claire was not one to easily be scared. She was a journalist, not one to shy away from the truth. And if there was a story to be found in Blackwood House, she would be the one to uncover it.

As she opened the gate, the wind howled through the trees. In the stillness of the night, the creak reverberated. Stepping inside, the iron bars clanged shut behind her. She felt uneasy, but Claire was able to shake it off. She had her flashlight, her camera, and her determination. She would not leave until she received responses. The front door was ajar, as if someone had been expecting her. Claire hesitated for a moment before stepping across the threshold. Her nostrils were filled with the stench of decay and mildew as dust filled the air inside. She was greeted by a grand foyer and a formidable spiral staircase. Paintings of grim-faced ancestors lined the walls, their eyes following her every movement.

She raised the flashlight, the beam slicing through the darkness, illuminating a broken chandelier that hung crookedly from the ceiling. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the occasional groan of the old house settling. Claire’s heart pounded in her chest. Despite the fact that she had never been particularly religious, there was something off about this location. Footsteps were the distant sound that came from deeper within the house. Claire’s blood ran cold. There was no one else here, or so she thought. She slowly moved toward the sound, careful not to make a noise. Strange shadows were cast by her flickering flashlight on the walls. Her breathing became more rapid as she came around a corner. The footsteps' sound got louder and more distinct. They were coming from the library. Claire pushed open the door with a creak, her heart racing in her chest. The library was massive, shelves towering on every side, filled with dusty old books. In the center of the room stood a tall figure, facing away from her.

A man was it. His hair was neatly combed, and he had his hands clasped behind his back as if he were waiting for something. He was wearing a dark suit. He hadn't heard her enter, which is strange. She took a step forward.

“Hello?” Her voice slightly shook. The man didn't say anything. Claire took another step, her pulse pounding in her ears. “Are you—are you okay?”

She was close now, just a few feet away, but still, the man remained motionless. She reached out to touch his shoulder. As her fingers brushed against him, the man’s head whipped around. His eyes were hollow, his face gaunt and pale, the skin stretched tightly across his skull. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a terrible, rasping breath. Claire stumbled backward, her heart slamming against her chest. The man lurched toward her with unnatural speed, his hand reaching for her throat. She crashed into a bookshelf, barely avoiding. Books tumbled to the ground with a thunderous crash.

She scrambled to her feet, her mind racing. What the hell was going on? The man was no longer a man; he was something else. Something dead.

The room was completely dark as once more the lights above flickered. Claire’s flashlight dropped to the floor, its beam casting erratic, disorienting light on the walls. She was forced to act. She had to get out.

Racing through the house, she could hear the man—no, the thing—pursuing her, its footsteps growing louder and louder. She burst through the door into the hallway, her breathing frantic, only to stop dead in her tracks.

At the end of the hallway was a mirror. Her own reflection was not in the mirror. It was a figure—dressed in the same dark suit, with the same hollow eyes, its hand reaching out to her.

It was her.

She turned, but the man was already there, his cold, dead fingers gripping her wrist. His foul breath brushed against her ear as he leaned in close. “You shouldn’t have come,” he whispered.

Her scream echoed through the house as the darkness closed in, and the last thing Claire saw before the world went black was her own reflection, smiling back at her.