The Hypnotist's House

Dylan adjusted the collar of his shirt for the fifth time as he stood at the gate of an old, vine-covered mansion on the edge of town. His girlfriend, Elira, held his hand with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. He chalked it up to nerves — after all, he was meeting her family for the first time. But something in the air felt off. Thick. Too still.

“You ready?” Elira asked, her voice light, but Dylan noticed a strange tightness behind it.

“Yeah, of course,” he replied, forcing a grin.

The door creaked open before they knocked.

A tall, slender woman in a flowing black dress stood in the doorway. Her eyes—icy blue and piercing—locked onto Dylan’s as if she was trying to see into his soul. Elira greeted her, “Mom,” and the woman nodded once before stepping aside.

Inside, the house smelled of old books and something faintly sweet—like incense. The walls were lined with portraits that seemed to follow Dylan with their eyes. The furniture looked expensive but untouched, like a museum display. Shadows clung to the corners of the ceiling, even though the lights were on.

“We’ve been expecting you,” a deep voice rumbled from the staircase. A tall man descended slowly, each step echoing in the silent house. Elira's father had a calm yet commanding presence, his silver hair slicked back, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Dylan, welcome,” he said. “I’m Elias.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Dylan managed, feeling the weight of Elias’s gaze.

“Come, sit with us in the drawing room,” Elias said.

As they walked, Dylan noticed strange carvings in the wood paneling. Spirals. Eyes. Symbols he couldn’t recognize. Elira squeezed his hand again, harder this time.

Inside the drawing room, the rest of the family waited: an older woman with an empty stare and a young man about Dylan’s age who kept blinking oddly, like he was trying to wake up from a dream. The room had no windows, just dim lamps casting yellowish light.

“We’d like to know more about you,” Elias said. “You know, Elira has always been… very special.”

Dylan smiled awkwardly. “Yeah, she’s amazing. We met in literature class. Her essay on dream symbolism really—”

“Dreams are more than just symbols,” Elira’s mother cut in sharply. “They are gateways.”

“Mother,” Elira said, trying to sound playful, “don’t scare him.”

Everyone chuckled, but Dylan noticed how no one else actually smiled. The sound was hollow.

As they sat, Elias poured wine. Dylan hesitated. “Uh, I don’t really—”

“One sip,” Elias insisted. “To family.”

Dylan took a cautious sip. The flavor was sweet but laced with something bitter. He felt a tingle in his temples almost immediately. His vision blurred slightly. Elira’s hand was still on his, but it felt distant.

“That’s better,” Elias said.

“What’s in the wine?” Dylan asked.

“A memory enhancer,” said Elira’s brother, finally speaking. “Makes things easier… for the process.”

“What process?”

No one answered. Elira looked away.

Suddenly, the room felt colder. The air tightened around Dylan’s throat. Elias leaned forward. “We are hypnotists, Dylan. Not stage charlatans. Real ones. With power. Influence. Our daughter is a prodigy.”

“What?”

Elira finally looked at him. Her eyes shimmered with an unnatural glow.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “They made me do it. They’ve been using me since I was a child.”

Dylan stood, but the dizziness hit him like a wave.

“You’ve seen the news, haven’t you?” Elias said, walking slowly toward him. “Politicians backing out of debates. CEOs forgetting passwords. Judges recusing themselves after 'mental breaks.' All traced back to ‘stress’… or so they say.”

Dylan’s heart pounded. He backed toward the door, but the walls seemed to shift. The symbols began to move. Spirals spun slowly, pulling at his vision.

“You're trying to hypnotize me,” Dylan said, fighting to stay focused.

“We already have,” Elira’s mother whispered.

Suddenly, Dylan saw flashes — images of his past week twisted and rewired: the stranger who stared too long at the bookstore, the professor who started repeating his lectures word-for-word, the blackout he’d had on Thursday. All pieces of a puzzle he hadn’t even known existed.

“This isn’t real,” Dylan muttered. “This can’t be real.”

“It’s very real,” Elias said. “And now that you know, we have two options. You join us, or—”

“Elira, help me,” Dylan begged.

“I am,” she whispered, and slipped something into his coat pocket. Her hand lingered on his shoulder before she stepped back.

Elias raised a hand, and Dylan’s vision swam again.

Then — CRASH — the lights burst, plunging the room into darkness.

“Elira!” someone shouted.

Dylan ran. He didn’t know how he found the door. Somehow, his feet remembered. He stumbled into the hallway, symbols blinking in and out of the shadows. Doors creaked open and shut by themselves. Whispers curled around his ears.

“Elira!” he called.

“I’m sorry, Dylan,” her voice echoed from somewhere deeper inside the house. “Run. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.”

He obeyed. The front door was gone. In its place: a spiraling black tunnel. He shoved his hand into his coat pocket — a mirror. Elira had given him a small, antique mirror. He held it up.

The spirals recoiled.

Dylan ran through.

The cold night air hit him like a punch. He collapsed onto the lawn, breathing hard, the house silent behind him.

He didn’t stop running until he reached the street. When he turned back, the mansion was gone. In its place: a crumbling ruin, overgrown and lifeless.

No lights. No whispers. Just a hollow silence.




A week later

Dylan sat alone in his room, staring at the mirror Elira had given him. He’d tried to find her — nothing. No records, no phone, no trace. It was as if she’d never existed.

But every night, in dreams, he saw her.

“Don’t forget me,” she’d whisper.

And behind her… the spirals were still turning.