Chapter 13: The House at the End of the Road

There's a house at the end of the road that everyone in town avoids.

It isn't that it looks particularly terrifying from the outside—it's not one of those crumbling old mansions with vines overtaking the walls or eerie gargoyles perched on the roof. In fact, it's a modest little place, tucked neatly behind an overgrown hedge, the sort of house you might barely notice when passing by. But the silence around it—the way no birds ever seem to sing from the trees nearby, or how children's laughter abruptly dies when they run too close—that's what makes it strange.

No one has lived there for years. Not since the old woman died.

At least, that's what the stories say.

I wasn't the kind of person who believed in small-town rumors. Ghosts, curses, haunted houses—all that was just a bunch of nonsense people told each other to pass the time. But lately, I'd been restless. Things had been different. Maybe it was the unsettling dreams that wouldn't leave me alone, or the fact that the familiar streets I'd grown up in suddenly felt… off. Whatever it was, I found myself drawn to the house more and more, watching it from a distance, wondering if maybe the stories weren't just stories after all.

One day, curiosity got the best of me.

It was late afternoon when I walked down the overgrown path, the sun already beginning its slow descent, casting long shadows that stretched across the cracked pavement. The air was unusually still, the only sound the occasional crunch of dead leaves under my feet. My heart raced as I approached the gate, though I told myself it was just nerves, nothing more.

The gate creaked when I pushed it open, the sound sharp and grating in the silence. I hesitated for a moment, looking up at the house. From this close, it looked even more unremarkable—just an old, worn-down building with chipped paint and a sagging roof. But there was something in the air, something heavy and palpable, like the house was holding its breath, waiting.

I crossed the yard, my steps cautious, my ears straining for any sign of life. Nothing. No birds, no insects, not even the whisper of wind through the grass. It was as if the house had swallowed the world around it, leaving me alone in its strange, muted bubble.

The door was unlocked. Of course, it was.

I pushed it open, the hinges groaning in protest, and stepped inside. The smell hit me first—stale air, dust, and something else, something faintly sweet, like rotting fruit left too long in a drawer. I wrinkled my nose, fighting the urge to gag. The hallway stretched out before me, dim and shadowy, with a staircase leading up to the second floor on my right. Old photographs lined the walls, their black-and-white faces staring down at me with blank, hollow eyes.

I don't know why I kept walking. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around, to leave and never come back. But I couldn't. I needed to know what was inside, what was pulling me here.

The floorboards creaked under my weight as I moved deeper into the house. Each step felt heavier, slower, like something was dragging me down. The air was thick, oppressive, and I struggled to take a full breath.

I reached the living room. The furniture was covered in dusty sheets, the once-vibrant wallpaper now peeling and faded. A mirror hung on the far wall, its surface cloudy and warped, reflecting the room in strange, distorted angles. I stepped closer, drawn to it without really knowing why.

As I stood before the mirror, I saw something move behind me.

It was quick—just a flicker in the corner of my eye—but enough to send a jolt of fear down my spine. I spun around, heart hammering in my chest, but the room was empty.

Empty, except for the feeling that I wasn't alone.

I turned back to the mirror, my reflection staring back at me with wide, frightened eyes. But there was something wrong. The reflection didn't seem quite right—it was off, subtly out of sync with my movements. I raised my hand, and the image in the mirror lagged behind, like an old video buffering.

Then, slowly, my reflection smiled.

I didn't.

The smile on its face was wrong—too wide, too forced. The corners of its mouth stretched unnaturally, pulling its features into something grotesque, something almost human but not quite. My stomach twisted, and I took a step back, the floor creaking beneath me.

As I backed away, I heard a soft, whispering sound. It was faint at first, barely more than a breath, but it grew louder, more insistent. I couldn't make out the words, but they seemed to be coming from all around me, echoing off the walls, seeping into my bones.

I ran.

I didn't care about the noise, the creaking floorboards, or the unsettling weight that seemed to press down on me from every angle. I bolted for the door, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my heart pounding in my ears. The hallway seemed longer now, stretching out before me like a tunnel, the door so far away I wasn't sure I'd ever reach it.

But then I did. I threw myself out into the open air, slamming the door behind me. The heavy silence of the house seemed to spill out onto the lawn, following me as I stumbled away, my legs shaking, my skin crawling with the memory of that thing—whatever it was—staring back at me from the mirror.

I didn't stop running until I reached the end of the road, the house now a distant shape behind me. Only then did I look back, my breath still coming in harsh, uneven bursts.

The house stood there, silent and still, just as it always had. Nothing had changed.

But I had.