The Haverford Mansion

In the small, fog-shrouded town of Hollow Pines, the old Haverford mansion stood abandoned at the edge of the woods. Locals whispered about its cursed history—how the Haverford family vanished one stormy night in 1923, leaving behind only bloodstains and claw marks on the walls. They said the house was alive, feeding on fear, and that anyone who entered after dark never came out the same.

Emma, a skeptical journalist chasing a breakthrough story, ignored the warnings. Armed with a flashlight and a recorder, she slipped through the mansion’s creaking doors just past midnight. The air inside was thick, oppressive, like breathing through wet cloth. Her flashlight flickered as she stepped into the foyer, illuminating peeling wallpaper and a grand staircase that seemed to twist upward into darkness.

She began recording. “October 31st, 1:03 a.m. Investigating the Haverford mansion. No signs of activity yet.” Her voice echoed unnaturally, as if the house were mocking her.

As she explored, small details unnerved her—a child’s shoe lying in a corner, a mirror reflecting her face but with eyes that weren’t hers. In the dining room, she found a table set for six, the plates covered in fresh, steaming food. Her stomach churned. No one had lived here in decades.

Upstairs, the air grew colder. In a bedroom, she found a diary, its pages filled with frantic scrawls: It watches from the walls. It knows my name. It wants my skin. The last entry was a single word, written in red: RUN.

A low hum vibrated through the floorboards, like a heartbeat. Emma’s flashlight died, plunging her into darkness. Her recorder crackled, replaying her own voice: “No signs of activity yet.” But she hadn’t pressed play. The words repeated, faster, distorted, until they became a guttural growl: “It sees you now.”

She bolted for the stairs, but the house seemed to shift. Hallways stretched endlessly, doors vanished. Her own footsteps echoed behind her, as if someone—or something—was mimicking her every move. In a panic, she stumbled into a basement she hadn’t seen before. The walls were slick, pulsing, covered in what looked like veins. At the center stood a figure, tall and thin, its face a blank expanse of flesh. It tilted its head, and Emma’s name whispered from nowhere and everywhere.

She screamed, clawing her way back up the stairs, her nails tearing into the walls. They bled. The house was alive, and it was hungry. She reached the foyer, the front door now boarded shut. The figure’s shadow loomed behind her, its fingers brushing her neck, cold as death.

With a desperate surge, Emma smashed a window and crawled through, glass shredding her skin. She ran into the woods, the mansion’s hum fading but never stopping. When she reached town, bloodied and incoherent, the locals avoided her gaze. They knew.

Emma never wrote her story. She burned her recorder and left Hollow Pines. But at night, she still hears it—the hum, her name whispered in the dark. And sometimes, when she looks in the mirror, her reflection smiles before she does.