The old building at the edge of town had stood for over a century, its weathered bricks and crooked windows whispering secrets to those who dared to approach. No one knew exactly when it had been built, only that it had once been a grand mansion, now reduced to a crumbling relic of forgotten days. Locals spoke of it in hushed tones, calling it "The Hollow House," though no one could explain why. It was never abandoned, but no one lived there either. The doors were always locked, the windows forever dark, yet something inside seemed to watch. One summer evening, a young artist named Elara wandered into the area, drawn by the strange beauty of the place. She had heard stories about the house, but they felt more like folklore than truth. As she approached, she noticed the silence—there were no birds, no insects, just an eerie stillness that pressed against her skin. The air smelled of damp earth and decay, as if the ground itself had forgotten how to breathe. She tried the front door, which creaked open with a groan that echoed through the empty street. Inside, the hallway was dimly lit by the slivers of light filtering through cracked windows. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, and the floorboards groaned beneath her feet. The walls were lined with faded portraits, their faces blurred or missing entirely. One painting showed a woman in a long dress, her eyes fixed on the viewer with an unsettling intensity. Elara shivered, then turned away. Upstairs, the stairs creaked like a living thing, each step revealing more of the house's secrets. There were rooms filled with broken furniture, shattered mirrors, and scattered books whose pages had turned to dust. In one room, she found a piano, its keys yellowed and warped, yet when she touched one, it let out a single, mournful note. The sound lingered in the air, as if waiting for someone to respond. As she explored deeper, Elara began to notice things that didn't make sense. A clock on the wall ticked backward. A mirror reflected not her face, but a shadowy figure standing behind her. When she turned, nothing was there. She felt a presence, not threatening, but watchful, like the house itself was alive and curious about her. In the final room, she found a small study. A desk sat in the center, covered in yellowed papers and ink stains. A chair faced the window, as if someone had been sitting there just moments ago. On the desk, a journal lay open, its pages filled with handwriting that looked both ancient and modern. The words spoke of a family that had lived there long ago, of a child who disappeared without a trace, and of a ritual performed under the full moon. The last entry was dated only a few weeks prior, though no one had been seen entering the house in years. Elara closed the journal, heart pounding. She stepped back toward the door, but the hallway had changed. The walls were thinner, the floorboards more warped. The air grew colder, and the faint sound of laughter drifted from somewhere deep within the house. She ran, her breath coming in short gasps, until she reached the front door. It slammed shut behind her, locking with a metallic clang. Outside, the sun had set, and the streets were empty. The house loomed behind her, silent once more. She turned to leave, but as she glanced back, she saw a figure in the upstairs window—a small child, waving gently. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. Elara never returned to the Hollow House, but she kept the journal, its pages filled with questions she could never answer. She painted the house often, trying to capture its essence, but no brush could truly convey the feeling of being watched, of knowing something was waiting just beyond the veil of reality. And sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, she would hear a soft knock at the door, as if the house was calling her back.