Every Halloween, the kids of Ash Hollow dared each other to knock on the door of the last house on the lane—a crumbling Victorian mansion swallowed by ivy and shadow. No one lived there, not since the Hollow family vanished fifty years ago. No lights, no sounds, just a rusted gate and a mailbox stuffed with yellowed letters.
But this year, seventeen-year-old Mara wasn’t just knocking. She was going in.
Her brother, Eli, had disappeared the night before. His phone pinged its last location from inside the mansion.
Mara stepped through the gate, flashlight trembling in her hand. The air was thick, like breathing through cobwebs. The front door creaked open on its own.
Inside, the house was frozen in time—dust-covered furniture, portraits with eyes that seemed to follow her, and a grandfather clock ticking despite being broken. She called Eli’s name. No answer.
Then she heard it: a soft lullaby, played on a piano upstairs.
She climbed the staircase, each step groaning under her weight. At the top, the hallway stretched impossibly long, lined with doors that hadn’t been there before. One door opened slowly.
Inside was a nursery. A crib rocked itself. A music box played the lullaby. And in the corner stood a mirror—tall, ornate, and pulsing with a faint red glow.
Mara approached. Her reflection didn’t move.
It smiled.
Suddenly, hands burst from the mirror, dragging her in. She screamed, but the sound was swallowed. The mirror shimmered, then went still.
Downstairs, the front door slammed shut.
Outside, the mailbox clicked open. A new letter appeared.
It read: “We’re home. Come join us.”
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