In the quiet outskirts of a forgotten town, where the trees grow too close and the wind whispers secrets only the old can hear, there stands a building that no one dares to enter. It is called The Hollow House, though no one knows why. Some say it was built by a reclusive architect who vanished without a trace, others claim it was once a hospital for the mentally ill, abandoned after a mysterious fire. Whatever the truth, the locals avoid it, their faces pale when they speak of it in hushed tones. The house sits on a hill, half-buried in ivy and moss. Its windows are cracked, some missing entirely, revealing the hollow darkness beyond. A rusted gate creaks in the wind, its hinges long since forgotten. No one has lived there in decades, yet the lights sometimes flicker inside at night, as if someone still lingers within. One summer evening, a young woman named Elara, an amateur photographer with a fascination for the strange, decided to visit. She had heard the stories but dismissed them as folklore. Armed with her camera and a flashlight, she approached the house with a mix of curiosity and excitement. The air grew colder as she neared the gate. The trees seemed to lean inward, blocking out the sky. When she pushed the gate open, it groaned like a living thing. Inside, the silence was oppressive, broken only by the sound of her own breath. The front door was slightly ajar, as if waiting for her. Inside, the hallway was dimly lit by what little light filtered through the stained glass windows. The floorboards creaked under her weight, and the smell of mildew and decay filled her nostrils. She took photos of the peeling wallpaper, the faded portraits of people whose faces had been scratched away, and the staircase that spiraled into shadow. As she climbed, the temperature dropped further. Her breath became visible in the air, and the walls seemed to pulse faintly. At the top, she found a small room with a single chair and a desk covered in dust. On the desk lay an old journal, its pages yellowed and brittle. She opened it carefully, expecting to find some clue about the house's history. The entries were written in a shaky hand, dated over fifty years ago. They spoke of "the watchers" and "the ones who never sleep." One entry read: *They are not alive, but they are not dead. They wait, and they remember.* Elara felt a chill run down her spine, but she continued reading. Further in, the journal described a ritual performed by the previous occupants, a way to communicate with something beyond the veil. The final entry was incomplete, the last line cut off mid-sentence: *I think I see them now...* She closed the journal and turned to leave, but the door had vanished. In its place stood a tall mirror, reflecting not her face, but a shadowy figure standing behind her. She spun around, but the room was empty. The mirror showed the same image again and again—her reflection, but with eyes that followed her every move. Panic set in. She ran back down the stairs, but the hallway had changed. The walls were now covered in symbols, glowing faintly in the dark. The doors led to rooms she hadn't seen before, each more distorted than the last. She stumbled into a room filled with mirrors, each showing different versions of herself—some smiling, some weeping, some with no face at all. Then, a voice whispered in her ear, not from the air, but from inside her mind: *You are not the first, and you will not be the last.* Elara screamed, but no sound came out. The mirrors began to crack, and the house shuddered as if it were alive. She reached for her flashlight, but it was gone. The darkness thickened, pressing against her skin like a living thing. In the end, she was never seen again. The townspeople searched for her, but the house remained untouched, its doors still open. Some say she’s still inside, wandering the halls, lost between worlds. Others believe she became part of the house itself, a ghost caught in the echo of a forgotten past. And so, the Hollow House remains, waiting for the next curious soul to step through its threshold, unaware that some places are not meant to be entered—but only remembered.