The Echoes of the Forgotten

It had always been there, looming on the edge of town—a forgotten relic that stood against time, both defiant and weary. Holloway House. No one spoke of it, but everyone knew its name. The locals called it “the cursed house,” and as a child, I always wondered why. My grandmother would tell me to steer clear, her voice trembling with a strange fear. She had her own story about the place, but no one dared to ask for details. To my young mind, it was simply a story—a spooky legend like the ones you tell around a campfire.

But when my grandmother passed away and I inherited her small, quiet home, I couldn’t ignore the pull of Holloway House any longer. It was just a short walk from her cottage. The curiosity that had haunted me for years was now a thirst I couldn’t silence.

I decided to face it, this house that had lived in the whispers of my past. I packed a small bag, feeling the air growing heavier as I made my way toward the towering structure. The path was overgrown with thick vines and tangled weeds, the way into the house obscured like a forgotten path to another world. The trees that lined the road seemed to lean in, their bare branches stretching toward me, as if they had been waiting for me all these years.

When I reached the front gate, it was half-open, as though inviting me in. I hesitated, but only for a moment. The creaking gate seemed to beckon me closer. I pushed it open, the sound echoing in the stillness. The house loomed ahead, dark and imposing. It had been abandoned for years, yet its eerie presence felt very much alive.

I stepped across the threshold and was immediately struck by the heavy silence. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and decay. Everything was coated in a thick layer of dust, untouched by time. My footsteps seemed unnaturally loud in the vast, empty space. The floorboards creaked beneath me, groaning as if they had borne too many secrets. The portraits on the walls—faded and fraying—stared back at me with eyes that seemed too lifelike for paintings.

But what caught my attention was the mirror at the end of the hallway.

It was huge, ornate, and covered in layers of grime, but it stood as if untouched by time. Something about it pulled me in. I walked toward it, my heartbeat quickening with every step. I wiped the dust from its surface with the back of my hand, and as I did, the reflection that greeted me wasn’t mine.

I was alone in the house. Or so I thought.

The woman in the mirror was me—but she wasn’t. Her face was pale, hollowed, her eyes dark and endless, like black pools with no end. Her lips were drawn into a twisted smile, as though she knew something I didn’t. I froze, my breath catching in my throat. For a moment, I thought it was a trick of the light. But no, she moved.

Her reflection stepped out of the mirror, leaving her cold presence behind. I backed away in terror, unable to move or scream. The woman stood before me, silent, her cold eyes locking with mine. Then she whispered—her voice soft, like a forgotten memory stirring in the depths of my mind, “It’s been waiting for you.”

The floor beneath my feet seemed to shift, and I stumbled, barely able to catch myself. The house seemed to breathe, as if coming alive around me. The walls groaned, and the air thickened, pressing down on me, making it harder to breathe. The woman moved closer, her feet never touching the ground.

I wanted to run, but I couldn’t move. Her voice, soft as a breeze but full of command, echoed in my mind: “Do you remember, child? Do you remember us?”

The memory hit me like a wave. The house. The whispers. The old lullabies my grandmother used to sing to me. And then, the truth. Holloway House was not just a home—it was a prison. A place where souls, lost and forgotten, wandered for eternity, waiting for someone to remember them. And now, it was my turn.

“Help us,” she murmured, her voice filled with a sorrow so deep, it threatened to swallow me whole. “You are the last.”

Her fingers reached out, cold and insistent, brushing my skin. A jolt of ice shot through me, and in that instant, I saw it all—the house’s past. The families who had lived here. The deaths. The promises broken. The souls trapped within these walls, waiting for release.

In that moment, I understood what had been left unsaid for generations. The house fed on memories, on regret, on unfinished stories. And now, it wanted mine.

With a final, desperate cry, I broke free from the trance. I ran, stumbling through the hallways, the echo of my footsteps blending with the cries of the lost souls. As I reached the door, the woman’s voice called after me, growing weaker, fading: “You cannot escape.”

I burst into the night air, gasping for breath, my heart pounding in my chest. The house loomed behind me, dark and silent once more.

I never returned to Holloway House. But I carry its weight with me still—the knowledge of the souls trapped inside, and the woman’s voice that lingers in my mind, reminding me that some memories are meant to stay forgotten. Yet, even now, I sometimes hear her whispers, urging me to remember. And I know, no matter how far I run, the house’s call will never truly leave me.

Some places, some stories, are never meant to be buried. They wait, patiently, for someone to return. And when they do, they claim what’s theirs.