It was a cold, stormy night in the quiet town of Black Hollow. The rain lashed against the windows of the old, abandoned mansion that loomed on the edge of town, its shadow stretching like a skeletal hand over the surrounding woods. Everyone in Black Hollow whispered about the mansion, though no one dared go near it. For as long as anyone could remember, it had been a place of strange occurrences and unexplainable sounds.
But for Mia, a curious young journalist new to town, the stories only piqued her interest. She had always chased the unusual, and the mystery of the mansion seemed like the perfect story. Armed with nothing but her flashlight, notebook, and a stubborn determination, she decided to uncover the truth.
As she pushed open the rusty iron gates, they creaked ominously, as if warning her to turn back. The path to the mansion was overgrown with weeds and lined with dead trees, their twisted branches reaching out like claws. She hesitated for a moment, then shook off her fear and marched forward.
The door to the mansion was ajar, swinging slightly with the wind. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the faint scent of mildew. The walls were covered in peeling wallpaper, and the floor groaned under her weight. Mia switched on her flashlight, its beam slicing through the oppressive darkness.
She began to explore the first floor, her pen scribbling notes as she cataloged the eerie sights—a shattered mirror, a child’s rocking chair still swaying slightly, and a grand piano missing several keys. It was as if the house had frozen in time.
As Mia moved deeper into the mansion, she heard it for the first time: a knock.
It was faint and rhythmic, coming from upstairs. Her heart skipped a beat. “Probably just the wind,” she muttered, trying to steady her nerves. But the knocking persisted, growing louder and more insistent.
“Hello?” she called out, her voice trembling. No answer came, only the continued knocking, echoing through the halls.
Her curiosity outweighed her fear, and she climbed the grand staircase, its steps creaking under her feet. The knocking seemed to come from behind a door at the end of the corridor. It was an old, heavy door with strange carvings—symbols Mia couldn’t recognize.
She reached out, hesitated, then pushed the door open.
Inside was a small room, completely empty except for a single wooden chest in the center. The knocking was coming from the chest. Mia’s breath hitched. She stepped closer, her flashlight trembling in her hand.
“Is someone in there?” she whispered. The knocking stopped.
Gathering all her courage, she knelt beside the chest and unlatched it. As she opened it, her flashlight flickered, casting strange shadows across the room. The chest was empty.
Confused, she leaned closer to inspect it—and that’s when she felt it. A cold, bony hand grabbed her wrist from inside the chest, pulling her down with impossible strength. She screamed, struggling to free herself, but it was as if the darkness itself had come alive, wrapping around her and dragging her into the void.
The next morning, the townspeople found Mia’s flashlight and notebook lying in the overgrown yard of the mansion. Her last written words were scribbled hastily, almost illegible: “It’s not just a house. It’s alive.”
No one dared enter the mansion again, but sometimes, on stormy nights, you can still hear knocking from inside.