MILLERS HOUSE

They called it the Miller House, the old abandoned mansion at the edge of town, left to rot for decades. Every Halloween, the stories would resurface: strange sounds, flickering lights, sightings of shadows. Some said Old Man Miller never really left; he just... stayed, watching.

One damp October evening, curiosity got the best of me. Armed with only a flashlight, I walked down the deserted road until the house loomed into view, casting a sinister shadow across the ground. The air felt thick, oppressive, as if it didn’t want me there.

I slipped through the rusted gate, its hinges groaning as if to warn me to turn back. The front door was slightly ajar, and as I pushed it open, a faint smell of decay drifted out, mingling with the musty air. The flashlight beam cut through the dark, illuminating cracked walls and peeling wallpaper. I moved through the hall, my footsteps muffled by dust so thick it almost felt like stepping through fog.

As I crept deeper into the house, I noticed odd details. A dining table, still set with dusty plates and silverware, as if someone had left in the middle of a meal. The faint sound of a grandfather clock ticking somewhere, though I hadn’t seen one in any of the rooms. And then... something colder. I felt a strange heaviness around me, as though the shadows themselves were creeping closer.

A door stood at the end of the hallway, slightly open, with a narrow staircase leading up to the attic. I don’t know what possessed me, but I had to go up there. My heart thundered in my chest as I climbed, the narrow walls seeming to close in around me with every step. At the top, I found myself facing an old mirror, covered with a thin, stained cloth.

I took a shaky breath and pulled the cloth away.

In the dim light, my reflection looked back. But it wasn’t quite... right. My face in the mirror was twisted, as if caught in a silent scream. I felt an unbearable chill creeping through my bones, but my body was frozen, unable to move. Then, slowly, my reflection’s mouth began to move, whispering something too low to hear.

I strained to listen. The words grew louder, and I realized they were coming from behind me. I spun around, my flashlight flickering, but there was nothing there—just empty space, still and silent. When I looked back at the mirror, my reflection was gone. In its place, there was only darkness, a yawning void that seemed to pull at me, urging me to step closer.

Against my will, I found myself reaching out. The closer I got, the colder the air became, until frost began to form on the mirror’s edge, creeping inward like icy fingers. Then, just as my hand was inches away, something pulled me back.

I stumbled, gasping for air. I scrambled to my feet, but as I turned to flee, I heard a soft, raspy voice whisper in my ear, "You shouldn’t have come here."

I bolted down the stairs, but the layout of the house had changed. Hallways twisted in ways they hadn’t before, and doors appeared where they hadn’t been, leading to rooms I didn’t recognize. My breaths came in short, panicked gasps, and the shadows seemed to grow darker, thicker, surrounding me like a web.

Finally, I reached the front door, but when I threw it open, all I found was another room, its walls lined with mirrors. In each reflection, I saw myself, but twisted, distorted, each version of me staring with wide, terrified eyes.

And then, one by one, they began to move, stepping out of the mirrors, coming toward me with outstretched hands, reaching, grabbing. My own face, my own voice, whispering in unison, "Stay with us."

The last thing I remember was my own cold hands closing around my throat.


---

I woke up outside the house, lying in the overgrown yard as dawn broke. I tried to stand, my body aching, but as I glanced at my reflection in the broken window beside me, my heart stopped.

My reflection smiled back—a wide, twisted grin that I hadn’t made.

Some nights, I still see it. In every mirror, every window. That crooked, unholy grin, watching, waiting.