The old mansion stood at the edge of the forest, its windows like empty eyes staring into the trees. No one knew exactly when it was built, but the locals whispered that it had been there long before the town itself. It was called "The Hollow House" by those who dared to speak of it, and even they did so in hushed tones, as if the very mention of its name might summon something from within. It was said that the house had once belonged to a reclusive artist who vanished without a trace. Some claimed he had gone mad, others that he had been taken by the woods. Whatever the truth, the house remained untouched for decades, slowly sinking into decay. Then, one spring morning, a young woman named Elara arrived in town. She was an architect, drawn by the rumors and the strange allure of the place. She found the house just as described—its roof sagging, ivy creeping up the walls, and the front door slightly ajar, as though waiting for someone to step inside. The air around it felt different, heavier, as if the world itself had paused to listen. Elara hesitated only a moment before pushing the door open. Inside, the silence was thick. Dust motes swirled in the shafts of light that managed to pierce through the broken windows. The floorboards creaked under her feet, and the scent of mildew and aged wood filled her nose. She explored room after room, each more abandoned than the last. In the study, she found a collection of unfinished paintings, their subjects blurred, as if the artist had never quite decided on their final form. In the basement, she discovered a hidden chamber. A small, circular room with walls lined in mirrors. At the center stood a single chair, facing a mirror that reflected nothing but the empty space behind it. When she stepped closer, the reflection of the room behind her appeared to move slightly out of sync, as if watching her. That night, Elara stayed in the house. She lit a candle and sat by the fire, listening to the wind howl outside. The house seemed to breathe, the floorboards groaning as if something were shifting beneath them. She began to feel a presence, not threatening, but watchful. It was as if the house was alive, aware of her, studying her. The next morning, she found a new painting in the study. It was unlike the others—vivid, detailed, and unmistakably of her. The figure in the painting was standing in the same spot where she had been the night before, but her face was obscured, her features smudged as if the artist had tried to erase her. She left the house that day, but the images lingered in her mind. She returned a week later, determined to uncover the truth. This time, she brought a journal and a camera. She documented every corner, every crack in the wall, every whisper of movement in the shadows. But as she walked through the halls, she noticed something strange. The furniture had shifted. The paintings had changed. The mirrors now showed reflections of people she didn’t recognize, figures standing silently in the corners of the rooms. One mirror, in particular, caught her eye. It showed not the room, but a dimly lit corridor leading deeper into the house, a path she had never seen before. She followed it, heart pounding, until she reached a door that had not been there before. Inside was a small room, bare except for a single window. Through it, she could see the forest beyond, but the trees were moving, stretching and twisting as if alive. And in the distance, she saw a figure standing among them, watching her. Elara turned and ran, not knowing whether the figure was real or a trick of the light. She stumbled back into the main hall, breathless, and found the house unchanged. The mirrors were normal again, the paintings untouched. But the feeling remained—something was here, something had always been here, and it had been waiting for her. She never returned to the house, but the dreams began soon after. Visions of the Hollow House, of the mirror room, of the unseen figure in the forest. Each night, the same question echoed in her mind: Was she the visitor, or had she always been part of the story?