The Curse of Ashford House

It was a stormy night when Jacob Mallory, a young paranormal investigator, made his way up the long, winding road toward Ashford House. The house had been abandoned for over fifty years, but rumors of strange occurrences and ghostly whispers had kept the locals at bay. No one dared go near Ashford House—except for those looking to solve its dark mysteries.

The house sat on the edge of town, perched on a hill that overlooked the sleepy streets below. Its broken windows and sagging roof gave it a decayed, haunting appearance. Over the years, the local townsfolk had come to believe that Ashford House was cursed. The last family to live there, the Ashfords, had vanished without a trace. No bodies were found, no evidence of foul play, and no clues left behind—just empty rooms and strange markings on the walls.

Jacob wasn’t interested in legends. He wasn’t even convinced by the stories of missing townspeople who had ventured too close to the house. He was a skeptic—a man of science—and his purpose was clear: to prove that the house was not haunted.

With his camera in hand and recording equipment set up, Jacob entered Ashford House. The air inside was thick with dust, the smell of mildew and rot clinging to the walls. Each floorboard creaked under his weight as he walked through the dark, abandoned halls. The only sound was the howling wind outside and the occasional drip of water from the leaking roof.

At first, there was nothing unusual. Just the familiar echo of his footsteps and the cold, oppressive atmosphere. But as he moved deeper into the house, the temperature dropped noticeably. His breath became visible, a puff of mist forming in the air. And then, just as Jacob was about to leave, he noticed something strange—a small door at the far end of the hallway. It was tucked away in the shadows, almost as if the house had been hiding it.

The door was old, with a brass handle that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. Intrigued, Jacob pulled the handle, and the door creaked open with an eerie sound. Inside, he found a small room. But what struck him immediately were the wall carvings. The walls were covered in strange symbols—runes and glyphs that Jacob had never seen before. They seemed to pulse with a faint, otherworldly energy, as if the house itself was alive, breathing.

Jacob took a few steps forward, trying to make sense of the markings, but the air in the room felt dense, suffocating. It was as though the house was trying to stop him from looking closer. As he lifted his camera to take a picture of the symbols, a cold gust of wind blew through the room, knocking the camera out of his hands.

The room went silent, and for a moment, Jacob felt completely alone in the darkness. But then came the whisper—a soft, barely audible sound at first. It was like a voice just beyond his reach, murmuring something unintelligible. He turned quickly, but the room was empty.

And then he saw it.

The mirror.

It hung on the wall at the far end of the room, covered in grime. Jacob hesitated for a moment, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. There was something wrong about that mirror, something deeply unsettling. But curiosity pushed him forward. He wiped away the dust from the glass, and the reflection that stared back at him made his blood run cold.

At first, the mirror seemed to reflect only the empty room behind him. But then—something changed. The reflection slowly distorted, and Jacob saw a figure standing just behind him. It was tall, shadowy, and vague, with no distinct features. But its eyes—they were the eyes that sent a chill through his very soul. Empty. Hollow. Unblinking.

Jacob spun around, but no one was there.

His heart pounded in his chest, and a wave of panic washed over him. He backed away from the mirror, feeling as if the walls were closing in on him. The whispers grew louder now, echoing in his ears, filling the room with a deafening sound. It was as if the house was alive, speaking to him, warning him.

Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind him. Jacob spun around, his breath quickening, his mind racing. He tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. He was trapped.

The whispering voices were now joined by something else—screams. They seemed to come from within the walls themselves, a cacophony of terror, all rising to a crescendo. Jacob’s flashlight flickered, and the room seemed to shift. The walls began to warp, and the strange symbols on the walls glowed faintly, pulsating with dark energy.

In a panic, Jacob stumbled toward the window, but before he could reach it, a loud crash echoed through the room. The mirror cracked, and in its shattered reflection, Jacob saw something that made his blood run cold—dozens of hollow eyes staring back at him.

The mirror wasn’t just a reflection. It was a portal.

A portal to the souls of those who had disappeared from Ashford House—the Ashford family, the townspeople, and now, Jacob himself.

The last thing Jacob heard before everything went black were the voices, whispering once more:

“Welcome to the family.”