There was nothing remarkable about Hollow Creek, not at first glance. A small town tucked away in the folds of mist-laden mountains, it had all the trappings of simplicity—cobbled streets, wooden houses with creaky floors, and locals who knew far too much about each other. Yet, beneath its quaint charm lay secrets best left buried.
Alyssa Harper wasn't new to the town, but she never felt like she belonged. She had moved here a year ago, chasing solitude after her messy divorce. The townsfolk were polite but distant, like they knew something she didn't. The only connection she made was with the decrepit house she had bought—cheap, isolated, and oddly comforting.
Until the noises started.
It was faint at first—a whisper on the wind, like someone calling her name. Then came the knocking. At exactly 3:15 a.m. every night, three deliberate raps on her bedroom wall. She had dismissed it as an old house settling, but deep down, she knew better.
One night, the knocks grew louder.
She bolted upright, clutching her blanket like it could shield her. "Who's there?" she called, her voice barely above a whisper. Silence. Then, a scraping sound, like nails dragged across wood, reverberated through the room.
Alyssa's heart raced. Grabbing her phone, she turned on the flashlight and pointed it toward the wall. There was nothing. Just the same cracked plaster she had stared at for months. But as the light swept the room, her breath hitched.
There, at the corner of the ceiling, was a shadow. It shouldn't have been there—her light brightened everything else—but the shadow remained, deeper than the night itself.
It moved.
She got out of bed, almost tripping over her rug. The shadow moved across the ceiling, slow and purposeful, as if it was aware she was watching.
Alyssa fled the room.
Downstairs, the air was thick and stifling. She reached for the light switch, but the bulb flickered and went out. Her breathing became uneven, each breath feeling like a heavy burden on her chest.
And then she heard it—a low, guttural growl coming from the living room.
"Alyssa..." The voice was faint, distorted, as if it were coming from a broken radio.
She froze. No one had called her name like that since... No, it couldn't be. She turned toward the sound, her trembling hands gripping a flashlight like a lifeline.
The living room was empty, except for the mirror
It was an antique piece left behind by the previous owners, ornate and out of place in her otherwise sparse decor. Alyssa had always had a strong aversion to it, but now, as she faced it, an overwhelming sense of dread enveloped her.
Her reflection wasn't her own.
The figure in the mirror had her face, but it stayed still while she shook. Its eyes—deep, dark voids—stared back at her, unblinking. Slowly, it raised a hand, pressing it against the glass.
Alyssa stumbled backward as the glass rippled like water. A hand—a real, flesh-and-blood hand—emerged from the mirror, clawing at the air.
"Get out!" she screamed, throwing the flashlight at the mirror. It broke apart into countless fragments, each one mirroring a part of her fear.
But the thing didn't disappear.
It emerged, its body twisting in strange ways, limbs bending at impossible angles. It loomed over her, its presence overwhelming. Then it whispered, "You shouldn't have come here."
The last thing Alyssa saw before darkness enveloped her was its twisted, inhuman grin that promised she would never escape Hollow Creek.