The Girl in the Mirror.

**The House on Blackthorn Hill**

There was a house on Blackthorn Hill that no one dared to enter. For decades, it stood in eerie silence—its windows like empty eye sockets and its walls covered in creeping ivy. The villagers believed it was cursed. Some said they heard screams at night, others swore they saw figures in the windows long after sunset.

For fifteen-year-old Riya, the stories were just that—stories. Her family had recently moved to the village from the city. Her parents bought a small cottage on the outskirts, and though her mother warned her never to go near Blackthorn Hill, Riya's curiosity had already taken root.

It was on a stormy Friday evening when the dare happened. A group of village teens stood in a circle at the bus stop.

"I dare you to go inside the Blackthorn House," said Arun, the local mischief-maker, pointing up the hill.

Riya smirked. “That old thing? Fine. I’ll go tonight.”

Gasps and nervous laughter followed.

That night, Riya packed a flashlight, her phone, and a small pendant her grandmother once gave her "for protection." By 10 p.m., she reached the edge of the property. Thunder rumbled overhead as the wind howled through dead trees. The gate creaked open like it had been waiting for her.

The house was worse up close—paint peeling, the door half-rotted, but strangely ajar. Riya stepped inside. Dust filled the air, and the smell of mold clung to everything. Her flashlight flickered for a moment but steadied. She swept it across a grand hallway. Faded portraits lined the walls—faces staring blankly.

As she moved deeper inside, the door slammed shut behind her.

She spun around. “Wind,” she whispered, trying to calm her nerves. But the air had changed—heavier, colder.

She explored the first floor: a living room with shattered furniture, a dining hall with cobwebs stretched like curtains, and a kitchen where rusty pots hung like relics. Nothing moved, yet it felt like she was being watched.

Upstairs, the floorboards groaned under her weight. At the end of the hall was a door—painted black. It was slightly open.

Inside, she found a child’s bedroom. Toys scattered the floor, a rocking horse faced the wall, and a mobile hung lifeless above the bed. She took a step, and the door slammed shut behind her.

The rocking horse began to move.

Riya gasped, backing into a dresser. Her flashlight flickered again—and then died.

The room plunged into darkness.

“Okay, very funny,” she said aloud, her voice shaking. “Who’s there?”

Silence.

Then, a child’s whisper: “Why did you come?”

Her breath caught. She turned on her phone light and pointed it at the rocking horse. It had stopped. But in the mirror beside it, she saw the faint outline of a small girl—eyes hollow, skin pale.

The girl pointed to the closet.

“No,” Riya said instinctively. “No way.”

But the closet door creaked open on its own.

Riya wanted to run, but her feet wouldn’t move. The girl’s voice echoed again: “She’s still here…”

Suddenly, the lights in the room surged. The mobile began to spin violently, toys rattled, and the air grew freezing. Shadows crept along the walls, and Riya felt something grip her ankle.

She screamed.

With all her strength, she broke free, yanked open the bedroom door, and bolted down the stairs. But the house had changed—hallways stretched longer, doors led to bricked walls, and her exit was gone.

She stumbled into what looked like a study. On the desk was an open book, its pages fluttering in an invisible wind. In the center, a single sentence glowed:

**"She waits for another."**

Behind her, footsteps echoed. Slow. Heavy.

She turned, heart pounding.

A tall figure stood there—faceless, draped in black, with elongated arms reaching toward her.

Riya backed away, chanting a prayer her grandmother had taught her. Her pendant glowed faintly.

The figure hissed, recoiling as if burned. Riya seized the moment, clutching the pendant, and ran.

The house twisted and groaned, walls trembling. She found the front door—now open wide—and dashed out into the night.

As soon as her feet hit the grass, everything went still. The wind stopped. The air warmed. Behind her, the house was silent.

She didn’t look back.

By morning, she lay in her bed, shivering. Her parents had found her unconscious at the gate. She told them she remembered nothing.

But the pendant was warm against her chest.

From that day, Riya never spoke of the house again. No one else dared enter it either.

Yet at night, from Blackthorn Hill, some say you can still hear a child’s whisper carried on the wind:

**“She’s still here… waiting.”**
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