Rain slapped against the windows of the old Whitmore house, each drop hammering a rhythm that felt too deliberate, too knowing. Inside, the air hung heavy with the smell of damp wood and something older-something that hadn't moved for decades but still watched.
A high school girl passed by as she always did, tightening her grip on her backpack. She never looked at the house longer than a heartbeat. But today... she stopped.
"This place..." her soft voice rose, barely audible over the rain.
Mara didn't know what drew her here. She had walked past the place hundreds of times, its peeling paint and warped shutters like a warning, but tonight, some quiet insistence tugged at her ribs and pulled her through the wrought-iron gate.
The floorboards groaned under her weight as she stepped inside, and her phone's flashlight flickered against the walls, revealing faded wallpaper curling at the edges like skin peeling back to reveal hidden scars. She paused, listening. The house was silent-except for a low hum, almost like whispering.
She swallowed. "It's just the wind... it has to be."
But the hum persisted, rising in pitch as she moved further down the hall, toward the staircase that led to the second floor.
Every step echoed in the empty house, though Mara could have sworn she heard something else-soft padding behind her, the faint shuffle of feet that stopped whenever she turned.
"Hello?" she called, voice trembling.
Silence answered, but it wasn't empty anymore. It had thickened, grown expectant, as though the house itself leaned closer to hear her.
The walls were lined with portraits, their colors dulled by time. The painted eyes followed her. She didn't see them move-not yet-but she felt their stare, heavy and cold against her chest.
She brushed her fingers along a cracked frame. The glass was icy to the touch, and for a split second, she saw herself reflected there-
but not quite right.
Her reflection blinked slower than she did.
And smiled when she did not.
"Don't... don't do that," she whispered, stepping back.
A nervous laugh escaped her, bouncing oddly through the hall like it belonged to someone else. Her reflection didn't mimic her. It only stared.
Then, very slightly, it tilted its head.
The stairs beckoned her, a crooked invitation she felt more than saw. Mara's hand grazed the banister, splinters biting into her skin.
As she ascended, the hum twisted into words, muffled and thick, as though spoken through the walls themselves.
"Mara..." they breathed.
Coaxing. Calling.
Urging her toward the attic.
She froze. She hadn't planned to go there. No one had gone there for years. But something in her-a small, curious, reckless part-continued climbing.
A cold draft hit her face as she pushed open the attic door. Darkness clung to the corners like spilled ink, but in the center stood a mirror framed in blackened oak. It was beautiful, grotesque, and unmistakably alive.
Mara stepped forward.
The reflection that looked back was not her own.
Its eyes were too wide, too dark, and its lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile.
"Finally..." the mirror whispered.
And Mara understood, with a hollow dread, that the house had been waiting. Waiting for her footsteps, her voice, her breath.
And now that she was here,
the listening would not stop.