The old building stood at the edge of the town, half-hidden by ivy and time. It had once been a grand library, but now it was abandoned, its windows broken, its doors sagging on rusted hinges. No one knew exactly when it had been left to rot, but the townspeople whispered about it with hushed voices, as if speaking too loudly might summon something from within. A group of curious teenagers, drawn by the mystery, decided to explore the place one stormy evening. They had heard stories of strange lights flickering in the upper windows and the sound of whispers that never came from any living person. But they were young, bold, and convinced that the tales were just exaggerations. As they entered through a shattered window, the air inside was thick with dust and the scent of damp wood. The floor creaked beneath their feet, and the silence was so deep it felt almost alive. A single flickering bulb overhead cast long shadows across the walls, making everything seem larger than it was. They moved cautiously through the main hall, where bookshelves still lined the walls, though most were empty or covered in cobwebs. In the center of the room stood a large, circular table, its surface scarred with deep grooves and symbols that looked like ancient runes. One of the teens, a girl named Lila, ran her fingers over the markings. “This isn’t just random,” she said. “It’s... intentional.” They found a staircase leading up, its steps uneven and worn. As they climbed, the temperature dropped, and the air grew colder. At the top, there was a narrow hallway with several doors. One of them was slightly ajar. Curious, they pushed it open. Inside was a small study, the furniture still arranged as if someone had just left. A desk sat in the corner, a pen lying beside an open notebook. The pages were filled with handwriting that seemed to shift when they looked away. When they tried to read it, the words rearranged themselves, forming sentences that made no sense. Suddenly, the door behind them slammed shut. The teens froze. The room became colder, and the light from the single window dimmed. Then, from the far end of the room, a soft voice spoke—not aloud, but in their minds. *“You should not have come here.”* They turned, but no one was there. The voice repeated itself, more urgent this time. “Leave now. Before it’s too late.” Panic set in. They rushed back down the stairs, but the door at the bottom was locked. The hallway outside was dark, and the sound of footsteps echoed from above. They could hear someone—*or something*—moving through the building, getting closer. They found another exit, a side door that had been hidden behind a pile of old books. They burst out into the rain-soaked night, gasping for breath. Behind them, the building loomed, silent once more. But as they looked back, they saw a figure standing in the window, watching them. No one ever went near the building again. The town forgot about it, or pretended to. But sometimes, on quiet nights, people would swear they heard the faint sound of pages turning inside, as if someone was still reading, still waiting. Years later, a new generation of kids heard the stories again, and some, just like before, felt the pull. The building had not forgotten them. It had only been waiting.