Ella moved into the old Victorian house on the edge of town, a place locals avoided and whispered about. She thought it was just small-town superstition—until she started hearing the whispers.
At first, they were faint, like wind through trees. But soon, they grew clearer, forming words in her ear late at night: “You’re not alone… You never were.”
She tried to ignore them, chalked it up to stress from work and loneliness. But the walls began to bleed—dark streaks oozing from the seams of the wallpaper, leaving behind strange symbols when they dried.
One night, the voice became louder, more insistent: “We’ve waited so long for you.”
Ella found herself sleepwalking, waking up in rooms she didn’t remember entering. Drawers opened by themselves, doors slammed shut, and mirrors fogged with messages scrawled in frost.
Then came the photographs.
Every morning, there was a new one on her nightstand—pictures of Ella as a child, as a teenager, some even of her sleeping. None of them had been taken by her camera.
She called a priest. He refused to come. Called a psychic. She never answered.
And then the voice changed.
It no longer said “we” . It said “I” .
One night, the voice guided her down to the basement. The door had always been locked, but now it swung open easily. The air was thick with mildew and something worse—rot.
In the center of the room stood a mirror, cracked and ancient. When she stepped closer, the reflections weren’t hers. They were of people who lived in the house before her—faces twisted in silent screams.
A hand reached out from the glass and pulled her in.
When police arrived the next day after neighbors reported screaming, they found nothing. No signs of struggle. No blood.
Just a single photograph on the kitchen table—of Ella, smiling, standing beside someone who looked exactly like her, arm around her shoulder.
But Ella wasn’t holding a camera.
And the reflection in the hallway mirror?
It blinked.
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