In the quiet town of Elmsworth, there stood an old building at the edge of the woods that no one dared to enter. It had been abandoned for over a century, its windows boarded up and its roof sagging under the weight of time. Locals called it "The Hollow House," a name whispered only in hushed tones around the fire. No one knew who had built it or why it was left to decay, but the stories that followed it were enough to keep most people away. The house was said to be cursed, though no one could say exactly how. Some claimed that those who entered never returned, while others swore they heard voices from within when the wind blew just right. The townsfolk would often point to the old miller's daughter, who vanished one autumn night, her last known location being near the Hollow House. Her father, grief-stricken, took to wandering the woods with a lantern, calling her name until he too disappeared years later. No one ever found his body. One spring morning, a young artist named Elias arrived in Elmsworth, drawn by the legend of the house. He had always been fascinated by the strange and the forgotten, and the Hollow House seemed like a perfect subject for his next painting. He rented a small cottage on the outskirts of town and spent his days sketching the surrounding area, capturing the rusted gates and overgrown paths that led to the mysterious structure. On his third day, Elias decided to visit the house. The path was thick with weeds, and the air grew colder as he approached. When he reached the front door, it creaked open without a sound, as if the house itself had invited him in. Inside, the silence was profound, broken only by the occasional drip of water from the ceiling. Dust coated everything, and the walls bore faded murals that seemed to shift when he looked away. He wandered through the empty rooms, each more decrepit than the last. In one room, he found a child's doll lying on the floor, its face turned away as if avoiding his gaze. In another, a piano sat in the corner, its keys covered in cobwebs. As he passed the mirror, he caught a glimpse of something behind him—just a flicker, nothing more. He turned, but the room was empty. As he explored deeper, he noticed that the shadows moved differently than they should. They stretched and twisted, as if alive. He began to feel a strange pull, as if the house was guiding him toward some unseen destination. In the basement, he found a hidden door, sealed with a rusted lock. Using a piece of metal he found nearby, he managed to pry it open, revealing a narrow staircase leading down into darkness. At the bottom, he discovered a small chamber lined with books and photographs. The photos showed people he didn’t recognize, all of them smiling as if in a dream. Among them was a picture of the miller’s daughter, standing in front of the Hollow House, her eyes filled with something unreadable. A journal lay open on a table, its pages filled with frantic handwriting. The final entry read: "They are waiting for me. I cannot leave." Elias felt a chill run down his spine. He turned to leave, but the door had vanished. The walls pulsed faintly, and the air grew heavy. He tried to call out, but his voice was swallowed by the silence. In the distance, he heard a soft whisper, not quite a voice, but something close. It repeated the same words over and over, as if trying to tell him something. When he finally found his way back to the surface, the sun had set, and the woods were bathed in an eerie blue light. He ran from the house, heart pounding, and didn't stop until he reached his cottage. That night, he dreamed of the house again, this time standing in the doorway, watching him. The next morning, Elias packed his things and left Elmsworth without a word. He never spoke of what he saw, and no one ever asked. But sometimes, when the wind blew just right, the townsfolk swore they could hear a soft voice echoing from the woods, calling out a name they had never heard before. And the Hollow House still stood, waiting.