The town of Black Hollow was a place wrapped in perpetual mist, where the air was thick with secrets, and the streets whispered names that no one dared to remember. It was here, in a decaying Victorian house at the edge of the woods, that Evelyn found herself trapped between dreams and something far worse.
She had come to Black Hollow seeking solitude. A writer in search of inspiration, she had rented the house for the winter, believing that the quiet would help her finish her novel. But quiet had a way of turning into something else. Something sinister.
It started with the whispers.
At first, she thought it was the wind curling through the hollow bones of the house, slipping through the cracks in the windows, carrying echoes of forgotten voices. But the more she listened, the more she realized—these whispers had shape. They had intent.
Then came the knocking.
Every night, at exactly 3:14 AM, a slow, deliberate knock would sound against the wooden floor just outside her bedroom door. Three taps. A pause. Then two more. Always the same pattern. Always at the same time.
Evelyn tried to convince herself it was the house settling, or perhaps an animal, but deep down, she knew better. She could feel it. That growing unease in the pit of her stomach, the way the air turned ice-cold around her at night, the way the mirrors in the house seemed to reflect things that weren’t quite right.
One night, she placed a glass of water on the floor where the knocking always came from. The next morning, the water was gone, but the glass remained.
The following night, she slid a piece of paper under the door, along with a pencil. She barely slept, her breath shallow as she waited in the dark.
At 3:14 AM, the knocks came. Three. Pause. Two more.
Then silence.
Heart pounding, she reached for the paper. A single word was scrawled across it in jagged handwriting.
“Evelyn.”
Her blood ran cold.
She didn’t sleep the next night. She sat upright in bed, gripping the rusted iron cross she had found in one of the drawers downstairs. The whispers grew louder, curling through the air like fingers around her throat. Shadows moved in the corners of her vision, but when she turned, there was nothing there.
Something was coming. She could feel it.
The next morning, she found muddy footprints leading from the front door to the foot of her bed. The door had been locked.
She decided to leave.
She packed her bags in a frenzy, throwing clothes, notebooks, and her laptop into a suitcase. The house groaned around her, the mist outside pressing against the windows like something alive. As she reached the door, she hesitated.
A feeling—no, a certainty—settled over her.
It wouldn’t let her go.
The air grew heavy, thick like molasses, pressing down on her shoulders, filling her lungs. Her vision blurred. The walls pulsed.
The knocking started again.
This time, it wasn’t at the bedroom door.
It was inside the room.
Right behind her.
Evelyn turned slowly, the breath hitching in her throat. The air shimmered like heat rising from pavement, and from the shadows, something stepped forward.
It had her face.
Not a reflection, not an illusion. It was her—eyes hollow, skin stretched too tight, lips curling into a cruel, knowing smile.
“Where do you think you’re going?” it asked in a voice that was almost hers, but not quite.
Evelyn stumbled backward, her knees hitting the suitcase. She reached for the door, but the handle wouldn’t turn.
“You can’t leave,” the thing whispered, tilting its head. “Not yet.”
The whispers outside turned into laughter.
The last thing Evelyn saw was her own face smiling back at her—before everything went dark.
ns 15.158.61.16da2
