The town of Blackwood had always been shrouded in mystery. Deep within its dark forest stood an abandoned house that no one dared to enter. Rumors swirled about strange whispers that could be heard if one got too close. Some said it was cursed, others claimed it was haunted by the restless souls of those who had entered and never returned.
One stormy evening, a young journalist named Ethan arrived in Blackwood. He had heard the tales of the haunted house and was determined to uncover the truth. Armed with a flashlight, a notepad, and an old camera, he made his way through the dense forest, rain pouring down on him like a relentless force.
As he approached the house, an eerie chill ran down his spine. The wooden door creaked open as if inviting him inside. Swallowing his fear, Ethan stepped in. The air was thick with dust and decay. Broken furniture lay scattered across the floor, and cobwebs clung to the ceiling like ghostly drapes.
Suddenly, a whisper echoed through the room. "Leave... now..." It was faint, almost like the wind, but unmistakable. Ethan's heart pounded, but he steadied himself. He turned on his camera and began taking pictures.
A loud bang made him jump. He spun around, but no one was there. The door he had entered through was now shut. He tried opening it, but it wouldn't budge. Panic started to creep in, but he forced himself to stay calm. He needed evidence.
He climbed the stairs, each step creaking under his weight. At the end of the hallway, a single candle flickered inside a room. Ethan hesitated before pushing the door open. The room was eerily untouched by time. A child's rocking chair swayed back and forth, though there was no wind.
Then he saw it—a mirror standing against the wall. But his reflection was missing.
A cold breath touched his neck. He turned abruptly, and the whispers grew louder. "You shouldn’t have come..." Shadows moved along the walls, forming grotesque shapes. Panic surged through Ethan as he fumbled for his camera. The flash illuminated the room for a brief moment, revealing a gaunt figure with hollow eyes staring at him from the mirror.
Ethan staggered back, crashing into the chair. The whispers became deafening, morphing into agonized screams. The room twisted, darkness engulfing everything. He scrambled toward the door, his breath ragged. Just as the shadows closed in, he felt a force pushing him—throwing him out of the house.
Gasping for air, he landed on the muddy ground outside. The storm had passed, and the house stood silent once more. His camera lay beside him, cracked but still intact. Trembling, he picked it up and flipped through the photos. The last image sent ice through his veins.
It was a picture of himself, standing in the room. But behind him, the hollow-eyed figure grinned, reaching for him.
Ethan never spoke of that night. He left Blackwood the next morning, vowing never to return. But every now and then, in the dead of night, he could still hear the whispers.
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