The Observation The mirror was the first thing. The old house on Blackwood Lane, which had been talked about by the locals, was Jamie's new home. Jamie was eager to leave the cramped city apartment behind, even though it was too cheap. Although most of the furniture, including the large, ornate mirror in the bedroom, appeared to be decades old, the house was fully furnished. It was a beautiful piece, the kind that looked expensive—dark wooden frame, curling vine patterns etched into the sides, and a slightly foggy reflection that never quite seemed to clear. They dismissed the mirror's unease as nerves from the moment Jamie entered the room. Jamie had a dream the first night about the mirror. In the dream, they stood in front of it, but their reflection was… wrong. Theirs was not the face looking back. The eyes were a shade darker, the mouth a little too wide. Like a torn film reel, the reflection blinked out of sync and a fraction of a second too slowly. Jamie woke up sweating profusely. It was just a nightmare. But when they glanced at the mirror across the room, a strange unease settled in their stomach. It felt as if something inside was watching.
Days passed. The house creaked and groaned like an old animal settling into its bones. Jamie tried to ignore the feeling of being watched, but the mirror always seemed to pull their attention. They started catching glimpses of movement from the corner of their eye—just a flicker, a shape darting out of sight the moment they turned their head.
The reflection then changed. It started subtly. The mirror became a fraction of a second behind, then an entire second. One night, as Jamie brushed their teeth, they saw the reflection still raising the toothbrush even after they had lowered it.
They jerked their heads as panic gripped them. The mirror was normal again, showing only their wide, terrified eyes.
They tried covering it with a sheet. The next morning, the sheet was neatly folded on the floor.
Jamie tried to justify it by pointing the blame at stress and lack of sleep. But as the days passed, the reflection became bolder. When Jamie was not around, it would sometimes smile. Jamie would sometimes stand still and it would move. One night, Jamie woke to a whisper.
At first, they thought it was the wind. However, the voice inside the room was urgent and low. “Let me out.”
Jamie bolted upright, heart pounding. The mirror was uncovered.
Standing, the reflection was. Jamie was not.
It smiled, its too-wide mouth stretching unnaturally. Jamie scrambled back, pressing against the headboard. The reflection stepped closer, hands pressing against the glass from the inside. As its fingernails scraped the surface, a gentle tapping sound filled the room. It once more whispered, "Let me out." Jamie fled the room, locking the door behind them.
That night, they slept on the couch. In the morning, they packed a bag and decided to leave. They froze, however, when they got to the front door. Every window, every surface, was reflective—shiny picture frames, polished wood, even the TV screen.
Their second person stood watchful in each reflection. Smiling.
The house was filled with whispers once more. “Let me out.”
Jamie never did.
No one knows what happened after that night.
When the landlord checked the house weeks later, they found the mirror shattered, shards scattered across the floor. But there was no blood. There is no body. Just a single fingerprint pressed into the largest piece of glass—on the inside.
The Whispers in the Walls
Sarah had been skeptical all her life. Ghosts, curses, hauntings—she dismissed them all as superstition. So when she found an old Victorian house on the outskirts of town at a shockingly low price, she didn’t think twice about buying it.
It was a beautiful place, though time had worn it down. The floors creaked, the wallpaper peeled in places, and the air smelled faintly of dust and something she couldn’t quite place—something stale, like a closed-up room that had been forgotten for years.
The first night was peaceful. She unpacked, made herself a cup of tea, and curled up on the couch with a book. At some point, she must have dozed off because she woke to a sound—faint, distant.
A whisper.
She sat up, heart pounding. It was probably just the wind sneaking through the old walls.
But then it came again.
Soft. Muffled. Like someone speaking just on the other side of the wall.
Sarah frowned. The house was empty.
She pressed her ear against the wallpaper, holding her breath.
A voice.
Low. Insistent.
"Let me go." She felt a chill down her spine. She jumped back, shaking her head. This was laughable. Since old houses make noise, it was an old house. Settling, shifting. That’s all it was.
She forced herself to ignore it and went back to sleep.
The whispers never stopped. Every night, they returned. Occasionally closer. Sometimes further away. Always the same words.
Let me go. She checked the walls, running her fingers over the wooden panels and peeling wallpaper. She tapped on them, listening for hollow spots, looking for vents or openings. Nothing. Just solid wood.
She was worn out by the week's end. The whispers didn’t let her sleep. And they were getting louder.
One night, at exactly 3:12 AM, she heard something new.
a sound of scratching. Something scraping against the inside of the walls.
Sarah jumped out of bed, her throat tight with air. The sound came from the wall beside her, just inches from where she lay.
Something was inside the walls.
As she reached for her phone and used the flashlight to scan the surface, her hands shook. The wallpaper appeared unaltered and normal. But then—she saw it.
Faint, barely noticeable, but undeniably there—fingernail marks.
As if someone had been clawing from the inside.
She pulled the covers over her head like a child and barely slept that night. When morning came, she decided she had to know what was behind that wall.
She went to the garage and took a crowbar. With each strike, she tore away pieces of wood and plaster, sending dust flying. Her breath came fast, her hands slick with sweat.
She then struck something. not timber. Not insulation.
Something soft.
Her stomach twisted as she peeled away the last panel, revealing a small, bricked-up alcove.
And inside—
A body.
Or what was left of it.
A woman with bloodied and broken bony fingers from scratching at the bricks, her skeleton still wrapped in the ruined remnants of a nightgown. Sarah fell backward and choked on bile. Then, her phone flickered and died.
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