The old brick building stood at the edge of town, its windows boarded up and its iron gate rusted shut. No one knew exactly when it had been abandoned, but the locals spoke of it in hushed tones, as if the very mention of its name might summon something from the shadows. It was called the Hollow House, a name that clung to it like mold on a forgotten wall. Every year on the first night of autumn, a strange phenomenon occurred. The wind would howl through the empty streets, carrying with it a low, mournful sound that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. Children were warned not to wander near the house, and even the most curious adults would cross the street, eyes darting toward the dark silhouette of the building. One such evening, a young woman named Elara found herself drawn to the place. She had always been fascinated by stories of the supernatural, and this tale of the Hollow House had captured her imagination. Armed with a flashlight and a notebook, she approached the gate, which creaked open as if expecting her. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the scent of decay. The floorboards groaned beneath her feet as she stepped into what must have once been a grand foyer. A chandelier hung overhead, its crystals long since shattered, casting fractured light across the cracked tiles. In the distance, a door stood slightly ajar, as if someone had just left. Elara hesitated, then pushed it open. The room beyond was smaller, with faded wallpaper and a single window that let in a sliver of moonlight. On the far wall, a mirror stood crooked, its frame warped by time. As she stepped closer, she noticed something strange—her reflection didn’t move at the same time as her. She turned around, but no one was there. The mirror showed her standing still, her head tilted slightly, as if listening to something only she could hear. A chill ran down her spine, but she forced herself to stay calm. She reached out, brushing her fingers against the glass, and for a moment, she swore she heard a whisper. "Come closer," it said, though the voice wasn’t hers. She took a step back, heart pounding. The mirror flickered, and suddenly, the room was different. The walls had shifted, the furniture rearranged itself, and the floor beneath her felt softer, almost like it was made of something other than wood. The air grew heavier, pressing against her skin like a living thing. Then, without warning, the lights went out. Darkness swallowed her whole. She fumbled for her flashlight, but it wouldn’t turn on. Panic surged through her, but she forced herself to breathe. She could hear footsteps now, slow and deliberate, echoing from somewhere deep within the house. She stumbled backward, her hands brushing against the cold wall. The whispers returned, this time louder, more insistent. "You shouldn’t have come here." A door slammed shut behind her, and the temperature dropped rapidly. She pressed her back against the wall, trying to steady her breath. Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw it—a figure, tall and thin, standing in the doorway. Its face was obscured, but she could feel its gaze on her. Elara turned and ran, her feet pounding against the floor. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to get out. The house seemed to stretch endlessly, corridors twisting into impossible shapes. Doors opened and closed on their own, and the whispers followed her, growing louder, more urgent. Finally, she found the front door. She threw it open and stumbled outside, gasping for air. The wind had died down, and the world was silent again. The Hollow House loomed behind her, unchanged, as if nothing had happened. But when she looked down at her hands, they were covered in dust, and her notebook was gone. She never told anyone what she saw that night. But every autumn, she would stand at the edge of town, staring at the Hollow House, wondering if it was watching her too. And sometimes, when the wind blew just right, she thought she could hear a voice calling her name.