The Hollow Eyes of Blackridge Manor

Sarah Mitchell, a seasoned investigative journalist, had seen her fair share of dark stories. But nothing had ever intrigued her as much as the legend of Blackridge Manor. Hidden deep in the English countryside, the manor had been abandoned for over a century, but its dark past had always lingered. Whispers from the locals spoke of people who had entered the house and never returned, their disappearances shrouded in mystery. And those who had come back? They were never the same—empty, broken, and haunted by something no one could understand.

The manor had long since fallen into ruin, its once-grand façade now crumbling with time. The windows were covered in grime, and the doors groaned under the weight of neglect. But the most chilling part of the story was the eyes—the hollow eyes. People claimed that once you stared into the eyes of the portraits inside, something would change. Your soul would be claimed, and you would become one of the lost.

When Sarah arrived at Blackridge Manor, she felt the weight of history pressing down on her. The house loomed before her like a monument to tragedy, its once-beautiful stone walls now scarred and decayed. As she stood on the porch, the wind whispered through the trees, almost as if the house itself was sighing, welcoming her.

She hesitated for a moment, but the thrill of uncovering the truth pushed her forward. She had come to prove that these were just old tales—superstitions crafted by a town gripped by fear. But deep down, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was stepping into something far darker.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and decay. The grand staircase spiraled up into the shadows, and every step she took seemed to echo through the empty halls. The scent of old wood and mildew filled the air. Cobwebs hung from the corners, and faded portraits lined the walls—portraits of people long dead. But it wasn’t the paintings that unsettled her; it was the eyes. Every portrait seemed to be staring directly at her. She couldn't help but feel as if they were watching her every move, waiting, calculating.

As Sarah explored deeper into the manor, she stumbled across a small sitting room. A cold chill swept over her as she noticed an old, cracked mirror on the wall. The reflection was distorted, but something in it caught her eye—a figure standing in the background, its face obscured by shadows. Sarah blinked and turned around, but there was no one there.

Her pulse quickened. The house felt wrong, like it was alive, breathing, aware of her presence. She could hear the creaking of the floorboards beneath her feet, the whispers of a voice calling her name, faint but persistent. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she made her way toward the attic door, which stood slightly ajar.

The stairs creaked as she climbed, the air growing colder with each step. The attic was pitch black, and Sarah fumbled for her flashlight. When the beam of light finally flickered to life, she was met with an unexpected sight—a room full of mirrors.

The mirrors were old, their glass tarnished with age, but the reflections they held were unsettling. Some mirrors were cracked, others completely shattered, but all of them reflected something that shouldn’t have been there. Figures in the background, half-formed, their hollow eyes staring out from the glass.

Her heart skipped a beat as the whispers in the room grew louder, their source unclear. It felt as though the walls themselves were alive, closing in on her, pushing her toward the largest mirror in the center of the room. She had to look, had to understand what was happening, but as she moved closer, she felt a pull—a pressure at the back of her mind, urging her to look into the glass.

With trembling hands, Sarah reached out and touched the cold surface of the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her, but something was wrong. Her eyes were empty, hollow, as though something inside her had been taken. She stepped back, horrified, but the reflection didn’t follow her movement. It remained, still, staring at her with those vacant, unblinking eyes.

Suddenly, the air grew colder, the whispers louder, until they were no longer whispers but voices. Voices of the lost souls, those who had vanished from the manor over the years, their spirits trapped within the house. They were reaching for her, pulling her into the glass.

Sarah tried to pull away, but her feet felt like they were rooted to the floor. The mirror began to crack, a web of lines spidering out from the center. In her mind, she heard a voice, clear and unmistakable—"You shouldn’t have come."

Her vision blurred as she was dragged into the mirror, her body becoming weightless, pulled into the darkness behind the glass. She screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the growing silence.

When the authorities arrived the next morning, the manor stood still, silent, as though it had never witnessed the horrors of the night before. But in the attic, they found Sarah’s body, standing in front of the mirror, her eyes wide open, vacant. Her mouth was frozen in a silent scream, and the look in her eyes was no longer human. They were hollow, just like the others before her.

The police could find no trace of the mirrors or the figures in the glass. It was as if they had never existed at all. But the townspeople knew. They knew what Sarah had uncovered. Blackridge Manor wasn’t just a house—it was a prison for souls, a place where the lost could never leave.

And now, Sarah had become part of the legend. Her eyes—hollow eyes—stared back at the world from the mirror, just waiting for the next curious soul to enter.