The old building stood at the edge of town, half hidden by ivy and time. No one knew exactly when it had been built, but the townsfolk spoke of it in hushed tones, as if its very existence was a secret they were not meant to know. It had once been a school, then a hospital, then a boarding house, and now it was abandoned—its windows boarded up, its doors sealed with rusted locks. The locals called it "The Hollow House," though no one could explain why. It wasn’t haunted in the way people usually imagined. There were no ghostly figures or wailing voices. Instead, the strange thing was that those who entered often found themselves unable to leave. Not physically trapped, but mentally lost. They would wander the corridors for hours, convinced they had only just arrived, even though their watches showed days passing. Some claimed they heard laughter echoing from empty rooms, soft and familiar, like someone they had known long ago. Others swore they saw shadows moving where there should be none, flickering just beyond the corner of their vision. A group of teenagers, curious and foolish, decided to investigate on a rainy evening. They had heard the stories, of course, but they laughed them off. “It’s just an old building,” one said. “Nothing more.” They climbed over the fence and pushed open the creaking door, the hinges groaning like a wounded animal. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the scent of mildew. The floorboards creaked underfoot, and the walls seemed to close in as they moved deeper. They found a hallway lined with portraits, each one of a different face, none of which they recognized. The eyes in the paintings seemed to follow them, though when they turned, the faces remained still. One of the boys reached out to touch a painting, and the moment his fingers brushed the frame, he froze. “What is it?” another asked. He didn’t answer. His eyes were wide, unblinking, as if he had seen something that made him forget how to speak. They continued onward, finding a classroom with desks arranged in perfect rows, though the chalkboard was blank. A teacher’s desk sat at the front, covered in dust. On it lay a single book, its pages yellowed and brittle. When one of them opened it, the words were not in any language they knew. They looked like symbols, shifting and writhing as if alive. The boy dropped it immediately, and the others felt a chill crawl up their spines. As they moved through the building, the lights flickered, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. They heard whispers, not loud enough to make out the words, but persistent, like a memory trying to surface. The deeper they went, the more the building seemed to change. The hallways stretched longer than they should have, and the staircases led to rooms that hadn’t been there before. One of the girls stopped suddenly, her breath catching in her throat. “What is it?” someone asked. “I… I think I saw my mother,” she whispered. “Where?” “In that room,” she pointed to a door down the hall. “She was standing there, smiling.” But when they approached, the door was closed. And when they opened it, the room was empty. They tried to leave, but the exit was gone. The door they had come through was now a wall. Panic set in. They ran through the corridors, calling for each other, but their voices echoed strangely, as if they were being swallowed by the building itself. The shadows grew darker, the air colder, and the whispers louder. One by one, they disappeared. Not all at once, but gradually, as if the building was taking them, piece by piece. The last one left standing was the boy who had touched the painting. He stood in the center of a large room, surrounded by mirrors. Each one reflected a different version of himself—some older, some younger, some with eyes that were not his own. He reached out, and the reflection reached back. Then the mirrors cracked. When the townspeople finally found the building, it was empty. No signs of the teenagers, no blood, no bodies. Just the lingering smell of old paper and the sound of distant laughter. The authorities declared it unsafe and ordered it to be demolished. But as the first bulldozer rolled in, the ground shook, and the building seemed to sigh, as if it had been waiting for this moment. No one ever lived in the area again. The land was left untouched, and the name of the place faded from memory. But sometimes, on quiet nights, people swear they can hear voices from the ruins, whispering secrets that no one is meant to understand. And if you listen closely, you might hear your own voice among them.