The old brick building stood at the edge of town, its windows dark and unyielding. It had been abandoned for decades, yet it never seemed to fall into complete ruin. The walls remained intact, the roof still held, and the iron gate creaked in the wind like a whisper from the past. Locals called it "The Hollow House," a name that carried more weight than any explanation could provide. No one knew who built it or why it was left behind. Some said it was once a school, others claimed it was a sanatorium, and a few even believed it had been a prison for the mad. Whatever the truth, the stories about it were always the same: people who entered never returned, or if they did, they were changed—quiet, distant, and haunted by something they couldn’t explain. One spring morning, a young artist named Elara wandered into town, drawn by the rumors. She had heard about the Hollow House in passing, but it wasn’t until she saw the faded sign on the road that she felt compelled to investigate. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and rust, and the silence around the building was so profound it felt almost sacred. She pushed open the iron gate, the metal groaning as if resisting her touch. Inside, the hallways were lined with peeling wallpaper, the patterns long since faded into ghostly outlines. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light that filtered through broken windows, and the floorboards creaked under her steps. She moved slowly, her breath shallow, as if afraid to disturb the stillness. In the main room, there was a grand piano, its keys yellowed and cracked. Elara ran her fingers over the wood, feeling the cold seep into her skin. As she sat down, she played a single note—a soft, melancholic sound that echoed through the empty space. The sound lingered, not fading quickly as it should have, as though the house itself was holding its breath. Then she heard it. A faint voice, not loud, but clear. It spoke in a language she didn’t recognize, and yet it made sense. It was not angry, nor welcoming—it was simply there, like a memory trying to be remembered. She turned around, expecting to see someone, but the room was empty. Elara left the piano and wandered deeper into the building. In one corner, she found a small room with a desk and a chair. On the desk lay an old journal, its pages filled with meticulous handwriting. She opened it, and the words were written in the same strange language as the voice. But as she read, the letters began to shift, rearranging themselves into English. It was a diary, written by a woman who had lived in the house years ago. She described the strange sounds, the shadows that moved without light, and the feeling of being watched. The final entry was dated the day the house was abandoned. As Elara closed the journal, a chill ran down her spine. She stepped back, and the door slammed shut behind her. Panic rose in her chest, but she forced herself to stay calm. She tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. The walls seemed to press in, the air growing heavier. Then, from somewhere deep within the house, a child’s laughter echoed. It wasn’t cruel or unsettling, just… there. A sound that belonged to another time, another place. Elara pressed her hands against the door, willing it to open. When it finally did, she stumbled out into the sunlight, gasping for breath. She never went back. But sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, she would hear the piano again, and the voice would return, speaking in that strange language, still waiting to be understood. And the Hollow House stood, unchanged, watching. Waiting. Listening.