The old mansion stood at the edge of a forgotten town, its windows like hollow eyes staring into the distance. No one knew exactly when it was built, only that it had been there for as long as the town itself, which had long since faded from maps and memory. Locals whispered about it in hushed tones, calling it "The Hollow House," but no one ever dared to go near it. Not even the children who roamed the woods behind it. It wasn’t the structure itself that unsettled people—it was the silence. The house never creaked or groaned like other old buildings. It sat still, as if waiting, watching. When the wind blew through the trees, it seemed to carry voices, faint and broken, as though someone were trying to speak from inside the walls. One spring morning, a young man named Elias found himself wandering the outskirts of the town, drawn by curiosity rather than fear. He had heard the stories, of course, but he had always dismissed them as folklore. He was an artist, a seeker of beauty, and he believed that the truth often lay hidden beneath superstition. He approached the house cautiously, his boots crunching on the gravel path. The gate creaked open without a touch, as if it had been waiting for him. The front door, warped and splintered, swung inward with a soft sigh. Inside, the air was thick and cool, carrying the scent of dust and something older—something that smelled like time itself. The hallway was lined with portraits, their frames cracked and peeling. The faces in the paintings seemed to follow him as he moved, their eyes shifting slightly when he turned his head. He reached out to touch one, but the moment his fingers brushed the glass, the room grew colder. A low hum filled the air, like the sound of a distant train, or perhaps a whisper just out of reach. He walked deeper into the house, past a grand staircase that spiraled upward into darkness. The floorboards groaned under his weight, though they had not done so before. In the parlor, a piano sat untouched, its keys yellowed and covered in a thin layer of dust. As he stepped closer, the lid of the piano lifted slowly, as if moved by an invisible hand. A single note rang out, clear and pure, then faded into silence. Elias felt a chill crawl up his spine. He turned to leave, but the door behind him had vanished. In its place stood a long corridor, its walls stretching endlessly in both directions. The light flickered, casting strange shadows that danced along the floor. He called out, but his voice was swallowed by the silence. As he walked, he noticed small details that didn’t make sense. A clock on the wall ticked backward. A mirror reflected a version of himself that was not quite right—his eyes too wide, his mouth curled in a smile he hadn’t made. He tried to look away, but the reflection followed his gaze, moving in perfect sync with his own. At the end of the corridor, he found a room that looked like it had been frozen in time. A table was set for dinner, the dishes still steaming, though no one was sitting. A chair was pulled out, as if expecting someone to return. On the wall, a calendar hung, its pages stuck on the same date: April 17th, 1943. Elias reached for the calendar, but the moment his hand touched it, the room shifted. The furniture rearranged itself, the walls pulsed like a heartbeat, and the air grew heavy with the scent of roses and decay. He stumbled back, his breath shallow, and found himself standing once more in the entrance hall. The door was open again, but when he stepped outside, the world had changed. The trees around the house were now twisted and gnarled, their branches clawing at the sky. The sun was setting, but the colors were wrong—deep purples and blood reds that should not have existed. He ran, his feet pounding against the ground, until he reached the edge of the town. Behind him, the house stood silent, its windows dark. But as he glanced back one last time, he saw a figure standing in one of the upper windows, watching him. He never spoke of what he saw, but he could not shake the feeling that the house was still there, waiting. And sometimes, when the wind blew just right, he swore he could hear the faint echo of a piano playing, though no one was there to play it.