Ellison Nooshe adjusted his camera, ensuring the mansion loomed ominously in the frame. The rain hammered down on his car roof, muffling every sound except his own nervous breathing. He wiped his damp forehead and hit record.
"Alright, folks." he began, trying to steady his voice. "This is Ellison Nooshe, and tonight, we're investigating the infamous Hamilton Mansion. Two years ago, Kaylee B Hamilton disappeared here during a livestream. No clues, no leads—just gone. And now... I'm going in."
The red recording light blinked steadily as Ellison stared out the window at the decaying estate. The mansion stood like a sentinel of forgotten nightmares: ivy clawing up its cracked walls, its tall windows black and hollow. The iron gate was slightly ajar, as if inviting him inside.
"Let's hope this isn't the worst mistake of my life," he muttered, grabbing his flashlight and bag.
The rain soaked him as he approached the gate. He slipped through the gap, his shoes sinking into the overgrown grass. A shiver ran down his spine, but he pressed forward, his camera capturing every detail of the ominous structure before him.
At the massive front door, Ellison hesitated. The wood was intricately carved with vines and roses, weathered but still beautiful. He reached for the handle and froze.
A shadow darted across the upper windows.
Ellison's breath caught in his throat. He aimed his flashlight at the window, but there was nothing there—only the rain streaking the glass.
"Okay," he whispered, his voice shaking. "I'm already seeing things. Great start."
He turned the handle, and the door creaked open. The smell of mildew and dust hit him like a wave as he stepped inside, his flashlight casting a dim beam across the grand foyer.
Marble floors stretched beneath a staircase that split into two directions, the bannisters lined with cobwebs. Crystal chandeliers hung precariously above, their once-brilliant glow reduced to lifeless shapes in the dark.
Ellison took a few cautious steps, his shoes echoing in the cavernous silence. His camera panned across the room, capturing every eerie detail.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it again—a flicker of movement at the top of the stairs. A shadow, barely there, vanishing into the darkness.
"Hello?" His voice cracked as he aimed his flashlight upward. Nothing.
Swallowing hard, he whispered to himself, "Just your imagination, Ellison. Probably just a trick of the light."
He followed a set of faint, muddy footprints leading deeper into the mansion. They guided him to a study filled with towering bookshelves and a heavy wooden desk. The air here was even heavier, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
On the desk lay a note, the handwriting elegant and deliberate:
"To those who seek answers: the key is in the stream."
Ellison frowned, his heart racing as he filmed the message. "The stream? Kaylee's livestream? Or something else?"
His flashlight beam landed on a laptop sitting on the desk, its screen cracked but intact. Beside it was a stack of notebooks filled with chaotic scribbles and strange symbols.
Before he could investigate further, a soft creak echoed behind him. He whipped around, the flashlight shaking in his grip. A section of the bookshelf was sliding open, revealing a dark, narrow passageway.
"Nope," he muttered, stepping back instinctively. But his camera was still rolling, and his curiosity burned brighter than his fear.
He approached the hidden doorway, the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. From deep within the passage, he swore he saw another shadow—this one standing still, waiting.
"Alright, Kaylee," he whispered, steeling himself as he stepped into the unknown. "Let's see where you went."