There was something about the house on Maple Hill that never felt quite right.
It wasn’t the creaking floorboards or the way the wind howled through the broken attic window. It wasn’t even the strange smell of burnt sugar that lingered no matter how many times you opened the windows. It was something deeper—something under the surface, like a shadow just out of sight.
Lena had bought the place cheap after the previous owner vanished without a trace. The real estate agent called it a “fixer-upper with character.” She believed him. She was young, ambitious, and ready to start over after her divorce.
The house had five rooms upstairs. Or so the blueprint said. But every time she counted, there were only four.
She chalked it up to stress at first. Maybe she miscounted. Maybe the hallway played tricks in the dim light. But then came the noises.
At night, around 3:17 a.m., a soft knocking would echo from the hallway. Not loud, but deliberate. Like someone was trying to get her attention.
One night, driven by frustration and curiosity, Lena followed the sound. It led her to the far end of the hallway, where the master bedroom once stood. The wall there was solid. No door. No sign of an entrance.
But the knocking kept coming.
She pressed her hand against the wall. It was cold—unnaturally so—and as she leaned in, the surface gave way beneath her fingers. Plaster crumbled. Wood splintered. A hidden door, warped with age, swung inward on its own.
Behind it was a room.
Not just any room.
It was hers.
Every detail matched her bedroom exactly—the same blue comforter, the cracked mirror on the dresser, even the chipped coffee mug on the nightstand. Except… it was older. Faded. Dusty. As if it had been abandoned for decades.
And lying in the bed was her .
Not a reflection. Not a photograph. Lena’s own face stared back at her, frozen in a silent scream, eyes wide open and black as coal.
The corpse sat up.
“I’ve been waiting,” it whispered, voice like dry leaves scraping stone.
Lena stumbled back, slamming the door shut. The knocking stopped that night. But it started again the next.
Now, she can’t leave the house. She tried once. Reached the front door, hand on the knob—until she heard her name whispered from behind her.
She turned around.
There was another her standing at the top of the stairs.
Smiling.
And the knocking still comes every night.
From inside the room.
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