In the quiet outskirts of a forgotten town, there stood an old building that no one dared to enter. It had been abandoned for decades, its windows boarded up and its iron gate rusted shut. Locals whispered about it, calling it "The Hollow House." No one knew who built it or why it was left to rot, but those who passed by at night swore they could hear faint whispers coming from within. One spring evening, a young artist named Elias decided to investigate. He had always been drawn to places with stories, and this one intrigued him. He found the address in an old journal he'd discovered in a secondhand bookstore. The pages were yellowed and brittle, filled with strange sketches and cryptic notes. One entry read: "The house remembers. It watches. It waits." Elias approached the building under the cover of twilight. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying wood. As he reached the gate, it creaked open on its own, as if inviting him in. He hesitated, then stepped through, his boots crunching against the gravel path. Inside, the silence was absolute. Dust motes floated in the slivers of light that filtered through broken panes. The floorboards groaned beneath his weight as he moved deeper into the structure. A grand staircase led to the upper floors, its banister carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift when he looked away. The walls were lined with portraits, their faces blurred as if someone had tried to erase them. He wandered into what appeared to be a library. Shelves of books stood untouched, their spines cracked and faded. One book caught his eye—it was bound in black leather, its title embossed in silver. When he opened it, the pages were blank, yet he felt a presence watching him. A chill ran down his spine, but he pressed on. In the next room, a mirror hung crookedly on the wall. As he gazed into it, his reflection didn't move. He blinked, and still, nothing. Then, slowly, his reflection raised a hand. He stumbled back, heart pounding, and the mirror shattered with a loud crack. He didn't know whether it was real or just his imagination, but he felt something change in the air. As he explored further, he found a hidden door behind a tapestry. Inside was a small room with a single chair and a desk. On the desk lay a letter addressed to him, though he had never written it. The ink was fresh, the handwriting unfamiliar. It read: "You are not the first. You will not be the last. The house chooses." Suddenly, the lights flickered, and the temperature dropped. A low hum filled the air, like a distant choir singing in an unknown language. Elias backed toward the door, but the hallway behind him had changed. The walls now stretched impossibly high, and the floor twisted in ways that defied logic. He turned, and the door he had come through was gone. Panic set in, but he forced himself to stay calm. He remembered the letter. "The house chooses," it had said. He closed his eyes and focused on the feeling of the place—its weight, its breath. Slowly, the world around him shifted again, and he found himself standing at the entrance of the house, the gate once more locked behind him. He ran, heart hammering, until he reached the edge of the town. Behind him, the building stood silent, as if nothing had happened. But as he looked back, he saw a shadow moving in the window—a figure watching him. He didn’t look again. Days later, Elias returned to the town, hoping to find answers. But the building was gone, replaced by a field of wildflowers. No one remembered it ever existing. Yet, in his dreams, he still heard the whispers. And sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he saw the mirror, the book, the letter, and the face in the glass that was not his own.