The old mansion on the edge of town had been abandoned for decades, its once-grand windows now shattered, its iron gates rusted and hanging by a single hinge. No one knew exactly when it was built, but the locals whispered that it had stood there long before the first houses were erected in the area. It was called "The Hollow House" in hushed tones, and children were warned not to wander near it after dark. One autumn evening, a young man named Elias, an amateur photographer with a fascination for forgotten places, decided to explore the mansion. He had heard stories of strange lights flickering in the upper windows, of whispers carried by the wind, and of shadows moving where no one should be. But he wasn't afraid—he was curious. He approached the gate and found it creaking as he pushed it open. The air inside was colder than outside, and the scent of damp wood and mildew filled his nose. As he stepped onto the cracked stone path, the ground beneath his feet seemed to sigh, like the earth itself was exhaling after years of silence. The front door was ajar, as if someone had left in a hurry. Inside, the hallway was dimly lit by the last rays of the sun filtering through the broken glass. Dust motes swirled in the light, and the floorboards groaned under his weight. A grand staircase led upward, its banister worn smooth by time. At the top, a single door stood slightly ajar, revealing a shadowy room beyond. Elias climbed the stairs, his flashlight casting long, wavering shadows on the walls. He reached the second floor and entered the room. It was a study, lined with bookshelves that sagged under the weight of ancient tomes. A desk sat in the center, covered in dust and yellowed papers. On the wall hung a portrait of a man with piercing eyes, his gaze seeming to follow Elias as he moved. In the corner, a clock ticked, though its hands had stopped at 3:17. Elias felt a chill crawl up his spine. He turned to leave, but the door slammed shut behind him. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier. He tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Panic fluttered in his chest, but he forced himself to stay calm. Then, he heard it—a soft, melodic voice, speaking in a language he didn’t understand. It wasn’t loud, but it echoed in the stillness, wrapping around him like a shroud. The temperature dropped further, and the light from his flashlight flickered. He saw a figure in the mirror—his own reflection—but it wasn’t moving. His breath caught in his throat. The voice grew clearer, and he realized it was speaking in English. “You shouldn’t have come here,” it said. “This place remembers.” Elias backed away, his heart pounding. The door rattled, then opened with a whisper. He stumbled out into the hallway, gasping for air. He ran down the stairs, past the empty hallways, and out through the front door. The moment he stepped outside, the oppressive feeling lifted, and the world felt normal again. But something was different. When he looked back, the mansion stood silent and still, its windows dark. Yet, as he walked away, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had left something behind. That night, Elias dreamt of the mansion. In his dream, he was back in the study, standing before the portrait. The man in the painting smiled, and the voice spoke again. “You are not the first. You will not be the last.” When he woke, the clock on his bedside table read 3:17. And in the mirror, his reflection was smiling.