In the quiet town of Elmsworth, where fog clung to the cobblestone streets like a forgotten memory, there was a place known only as the Hollow House. It stood at the edge of the forest, its windows boarded up and its roof sagging with age. No one in the town had ever dared to enter it, not even the children who liked to dare each other with stories of ghosts and curses. The Hollow House had been abandoned for over a century, ever since the last owner, a reclusive woman named Eleanor Voss, vanished without a trace. Her disappearance was never explained. The townsfolk whispered that she had gone mad, that she had tried to summon something from the other side. Others believed she had simply walked into the woods and never returned. But the house remained, untouched by time, as if waiting for someone to come back. One autumn evening, a young man named Leo arrived in Elmsworth. He was an archivist from the city, researching old local legends for a book he was writing. He had heard about the Hollow House and, despite the warnings, decided to visit it. The townspeople looked at him with suspicion, some even refusing to speak to him after he asked about the house. He found the house just past midnight, standing alone in the clearing, its dark silhouette against the moonlit sky. The air around it was colder than the rest of the forest, and the wind carried a faint, almost musical hum. As he approached, he noticed that the boards on the windows were slightly loose, as if they had been tampered with recently. Inside, the house was silent, save for the creak of floorboards beneath his feet. Dust covered everything, and the scent of mildew and old paper filled the air. In the living room, a dusty piano sat in the corner, its keys yellowed and cracked. On the wall hung a portrait of Eleanor Voss, her eyes seeming to follow him as he moved. Leo began searching through the house, looking for any clues about Eleanor's fate. In the study, he found a journal tucked behind a stack of books. The pages were filled with strange symbols and hurried notes, some written in a language he didn’t recognize. One entry caught his attention: "She is still here. She waits. I must not let her see me." As he read, the temperature in the room dropped sharply. A chill ran down his spine, and the lights flickered overhead. He closed the journal and turned to leave, but the door had locked itself. Panic set in as he tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. From the hallway, he heard a soft, melodic whisper, not quite words, but something close. He backed away slowly, his breath shallow. The whisper grew louder, and then he saw it—a figure in the doorway, tall and thin, its face obscured by shadow. It didn’t move, but he could feel its gaze on him. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. Leo finally managed to force the door open, collapsing onto the grass outside. He ran through the woods, not stopping until he reached the town square. The next morning, he left Elmsworth, never to return. His book was never published, and the Hollow House remained as it was—silent, waiting. But some say that on certain nights, when the moon is full and the wind is still, the house comes alive again. The piano plays on its own, and the whisper returns, calling out to those who dare to listen. And if you are lucky enough to hear it, you might wonder—if Eleanor Voss is truly gone, or if she has simply found a new way to stay.