The old house on the edge of town had always been a mystery. It stood alone, surrounded by overgrown hedges that seemed to reach out like grasping fingers. No one knew who built it, or why it was abandoned so long ago. Locals whispered about strange noises and shadowy figures that flickered in the windows, but no one dared to investigate. The only thing that remained certain was that the house never changed. Its paint peeled in the same places, its windows were always cracked, and the front door creaked open just enough to let the wind pass through. One spring morning, a young woman named Elara found herself drawn to the place. She had moved to the town a few months earlier, searching for a quiet life away from the noise of the city. But the silence here felt different—too still, too heavy. She had heard the stories, of course, but she wasn’t one to believe in ghosts. Still, something about the house called to her, like a song she couldn’t quite remember. She approached it cautiously, her boots crunching against the gravel path. The air smelled of damp earth and decay. As she reached the front door, she noticed a small plaque on the wall: *“Built in 1897.”* That was more than a century ago. The wood was warped and blackened, and when she pushed the door, it groaned as if it had not been opened in years. Inside, the air was cool and thick with dust. A single shaft of light filtered through a broken window, illuminating motes that danced like tiny spirits. The floorboards creaked beneath her feet, and every sound echoed strangely, as though the walls themselves were listening. She walked through the foyer, past a dusty chandelier that hung crookedly from the ceiling, and into what must have once been a parlor. The furniture was covered in white sheets, but one of them had slipped off, revealing an ornate piano. On the bench sat a single sheet of music, its notes faded but still legible. Elara picked it up, and as she did, a chill ran down her spine. The melody was familiar, though she couldn’t place it. She turned the page, and there, written in elegant script, was a name: *“Eleanor.”* She stepped back, heart pounding. There was no record of anyone named Eleanor living in the house, at least not in the records she had seen. But the name felt right, as if it had been waiting for her. She wandered deeper into the house, past a staircase that spiraled into darkness, and into what appeared to be a study. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books that looked untouched by time. One book, however, was open on the desk, its pages filled with handwritten notes. Elara read the first entry: *“I am trapped here, but not by choice. They will come for me soon, and I must hide the truth.”* The writing was frantic, almost desperate. She flipped through the pages, each entry more cryptic than the last. Some spoke of a secret room, others of a ritual gone wrong. The final entry was dated just three days before the house was supposedly abandoned. As she closed the book, the lights flickered, and the temperature dropped. A low hum filled the air, vibrating through her bones. She turned around, but the room was empty. Then she saw it—a faint glow behind the bookshelf. She stepped closer, and the glow intensified. With trembling hands, she pushed the shelf aside, revealing a hidden door. The door was made of dark wood, carved with symbols she didn’t recognize. She hesitated, then pushed it open. Inside was a small chamber, lit by a single candle that burned without a flame. In the center stood a mirror, its surface rippling like water. When she looked into it, she saw not her reflection, but a woman standing behind her, watching. Elara turned, but the room was empty. The mirror showed the same image again and again, each time with the woman’s face slightly different. One moment she was young, the next old, then pale, then bloodstained. The realization hit her like a wave—this house was not just haunted. It was alive. She backed away, but the door slammed shut behind her. The mirror's glow grew brighter, and the hum returned, louder now. She pressed her hands against the glass, and for a brief moment, she saw herself in the mirror—but her eyes were hollow, her mouth stretched into a silent scream. Then everything went dark. When she awoke, she was outside, lying on the cold ground. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the yard. The house stood silent and still, as if nothing had happened. She got to her feet, shaken but alive. She never told anyone what she saw, but sometimes, when the wind blew just right, she swore she could hear the sound of a piano playing in the distance. And in the mirror, she still saw the woman, watching.