The house had been empty for over sixty years.
The town of Blackwood spoke about Hawthorne House only in hushed voices, as though mentioning its name might awaken something that slumbered within. Perched at the end of a forgotten road, half-consumed by ivy and weathered by time, the house seemed to lean toward the earth in exhaustion. Its windows were dark eyes, its door slightly ajar like a mouth eternally whispering secrets into the wind.
Darren wasn’t one to believe in ghost stories. He was a hobbyist urban explorer, someone who sought out abandoned places and documented their decay. When he first heard about Hawthorne House through a grainy YouTube video, it seemed perfect for his next project. He packed his camera, flashlight, and a crowbar for good measure, and set off for Blackwood.
The afternoon sun was already sinking when Darren reached the dirt road that led to the house. Trees stretched their skeletal branches overhead, forming a canopy that darkened the path even further. Each step kicked up the scent of damp earth and decomposing leaves. The house appeared suddenly at a bend, rising like a ruin from the underbrush.
Its front door creaked when Darren pushed it open, revealing a hallway shrouded in shadows. The air was thick with rot and dust. Peeling wallpaper hung like torn skin from the walls. Every sound — the groaning floorboards, the creak of his boots — felt intrusive, like he was walking into something’s memory.
Room by room, Darren captured footage. An old piano missing half its keys stood in the parlor. Crumbling portraits lined the walls, their subjects’ faces long faded. Upstairs, a rusted bed frame sat in the center of a room, the mattress caved in, the sheets a tangle of mildew and time.
He found the diary on the third floor, in a small room tucked behind a hidden door at the end of the hall. The door itself was nearly invisible, disguised as a panel in the wall, but Darren’s curious hand had pressed the right spot, and with a soft click, it swung inward.
The room was windowless, no larger than a closet. On a narrow shelf sat a leather-bound book, its cover cracked and flaking. The diary’s pages were brittle, darkened with age, but the ink was still clear — a neat, elegant script that seemed to whisper directly into his mind.
July 3, 1949
I have hidden myself here, away from Mother and her temper. She does not know this room exists. I discovered it when I was small, when the house was still new and the wood still smelled sweet. Now the whole house smells like smoke and damp earth, but I love this room. It is mine.
Darren flipped through the pages, each entry adding to the strange, secretive life that had unfolded within the house.
August 15, 1949
Mother has been talking to the walls again. She says the house listens. Sometimes I think she’s right. The floor creaks when no one walks on it, and the windows fog up when the room is warm. Sometimes I feel breath on my neck when I’m alone. But I am never scared in my room. Here, it feels like the house forgets I exist.
September 2, 1949
I saw her again today — the girl in the mirror. She stands behind my reflection, her mouth moving like she’s speaking, but I can’t hear her. I asked Mother about her once, but she slapped me and told me never to mention her again. But the girl is real. I see her every day.
Darren’s flashlight flickered, its beam dancing across the floorboards. The house creaked, the sound carrying through the empty halls like a sigh. Something about the diary made the air feel heavier, as though it had been waiting to be read.
October 12, 1949
Mother locked me in my room for the whole day. She said I was lying about the noises in the walls. But I’m not lying. They whisper at night, soft voices, like a chorus just beyond hearing. They say my name. They say things I don’t understand, things I don’t want to understand.
Darren shivered, flipping further ahead. The handwriting became more erratic, the script slanting sharply across the page.
November 5, 1949
The girl in the mirror has a name. I heard her whisper it. Eleanor. She wants me to open the door. She says there’s a door inside the house, hidden like my room. If I open it, she can come through. She says she’ll make me whole again. I don’t know what that means.
November 12, 1949
Mother found my diary. She tore out pages and burned them in the fireplace. I’m writing this in my secret room. I can hear her downstairs, screaming at the empty air. Eleanor is angry. I can see her in every mirror now, even when I’m not looking for her. Her hands are so pale. They press against the glass like she’s trying to push through.
The entries stopped abruptly after November 12, and Darren realized several pages were missing — torn out, edges jagged and scorched. The final entry, scrawled in frantic slashes of ink, filled the last page.
November 18, 1949
The door is open.
Darren felt the words crawl down his spine. He stood up, backing away from the shelf, the diary still clutched in his hand. A gust of cold air whispered through the room, flickering his flashlight again.
The floor creaked outside the secret room.
Darren held his breath. There was no one else in the house. There couldn’t be.
He stepped into the hallway, the beam of his flashlight trembling across the floorboards. The air felt thick, like water, the shadows pressing closer with each step. As he turned to descend the stairs, the hallway stretched before him, longer than it had been when he arrived. The wallpaper seemed to pulse, the floral pattern writhing like something alive.
The mirrors lining the hallway were old, their surfaces cracked and cloudy. Darren caught his reflection in one — and saw a figure standing behind him.
A girl, no older than twelve, her hair dark and tangled, her dress torn and stained. Her eyes were mirrors themselves, reflecting his own terrified face back at him.
Her mouth moved.
“Open the door.”
The house groaned, the floor tilting beneath his feet. Darren stumbled, the diary slipping from his grasp and landing with a soft thud. The girl’s reflection lingered a moment longer, then dissolved into the dark.
The door at the end of the hall — a door that hadn’t been there before — stood slightly ajar.
Darren’s heart hammered in his chest. The air pressing against his skin felt electric, charged with something ancient and wrong. He took a step forward, then another, each footfall heavier than the last.
The door swung open on its own.
The room beyond was identical to the secret room where he’d found the diary, but cleaner, brighter — untouched by time. In the center stood a mirror, its frame carved with twisted vines and faces, each mouth open in silent screams. The glass shimmered like water, and in it, Darren saw the girl.
Eleanor.
She smiled, her lips splitting too wide, her teeth too sharp.
“Come play,” she whispered.
The mirror’s surface rippled. Hands — pale, childlike hands — reached through, fingers brushing the air like they were searching for him.
Darren turned and ran.
The house chased him — the walls seemed to breathe, the floors pitched beneath his feet. The front door was farther away than it should have been, the hallway stretching and twisting like a living thing. The diary lay at the top of the stairs, its pages fluttering as though caught in a breeze.
The whispers rose, a chorus of voices all speaking at once, calling his name.
He burst through the front door, into the night, gasping for air. The house stood silent behind him, its windows dark, its door shut tight.
In his hands, without realizing how, Darren held the diary.
He left Blackwood that night, but the diary stayed with him. No matter where he went, it reappeared — on his bedside table, in his car, in his backpack. The last page had changed.
We’re still waiting.
.jpeg)
No comments:
Post a Comment