quoting naddr1qq…hm85The wind howled outside like a warning. Rain splashed against the windows of the old countryside mansion as Susan stepped in, clutching her soaked coat.
“Are you sure about this place?” her younger brother, James, asked, eyeing the cobwebbed chandelier.
“It belonged to our grandmother. We have to clear it out before it’s sold,” Susan replied, though her voice lacked confidence.
They hadn’t visited the estate in over ten years. Not since their grandmother’s mysterious disappearance.
As they explored, they reached a narrow hallway that ended at a crooked staircase descending into the basement.
“Nope,” James said, stepping back. “I’m not going down there.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Susan forced a smile. “It’s just a basement.”
But as she pulled the chain to light the way, the bulb flickered and a whisper rode the cold draft:
“Susan…”
She froze. “Did you hear that?”
“What?” James asked, already halfway back toward the kitchen.
“My name. Someone said my name.”
James laughed nervously. “It’s an old house. It creaks.”
But Susan wasn’t convinced. She took a breath and stepped down the stairs, one creaking step at a time.
The basement was filled with antiques, trunks, and one large wardrobe. She walked toward it, and the whisper came again louder.
“Susan… don’t forget.”
She yanked open the wardrobe and gasped.
Inside was a broken mirror, its cracks forming a spider web of reflections. Taped to the mirror was a faded photo: her grandmother standing in front of this very mirror looking terrified.
Behind the photo, a small note was pinned.
If you found this, it means I failed to stop him. The man under the stairs is not a man at all. Don’t trust the whisper. It’s how he gets in. Burn the wardrobe. Don’t look in the mirror.
“James!” she screamed, panic rising. “Get down here now!”
“What’s going on?” he shouted as he clattered down.
She showed him the note.
He read it and chuckled. “Come on, this is… old people paranoia.”
The mirror’s surface shimmered. Susan stepped back.
James tilted his head. “It’s just a mir”
A hand shot out from the reflection and gripped his wrist.
He screamed.
“Get it off me!”
Susan grabbed a rusted poker from the floor and struck the mirror. It cracked further but the hand tightened.
James’s eyes turned glassy. He whispered:
“Don’t forget… like she did.”
Susan’s heart pounded. She turned, grabbed a bottle of lighter fluid from a shelf, and doused the wardrobe.
“I’m sorry.” She struck a match.
The fire consumed the wood fast, the mirror howling like an animal. James collapsed.
When he opened his eyes, he gasped for air.
“What… what just happened?”
James held him close. “We’re leaving. Now.”
They ran from the house. Behind them, the mansion glowed in eerie orange as the basement burned away the secrets.
Moral:
Silence doesn’t kill secrets. It feeds them.
ODILI ONUOHA on Nostr: Every truth buried in silence grows louder with time. ...
Every truth buried in silence grows louder with time.