The house didn't start this way. At least, that's what the oldest residents of the town claimed.
Once, it had been a bright, cheerful home—a family dwelling filled with laughter and the smell of fresh-baked bread. But no one could remember exactly when it had turned. Some said it was after the family who built it vanished without a trace. Others insisted it had always been cursed, its cheerful facade a mask for something darker.
What everyone agreed on was this: The house was alive.
At first, it seemed to feed off small things—keys misplaced, pets disappearing, flickering lights that left electricians scratching their heads. But as years passed, its hunger grew.
One brave couple, determined to debunk the town's superstitions, rented the house. They even invited friends over for a party to prove how "normal" it was.
The next morning, the neighbors found their car still parked in the driveway, doors flung open.
Inside the house, every light was on. The floors were smeared with black streaks, like something had been dragged across them. The only sound was the faint hum of electricity.
The couple was never seen again.
By the time the house gained its infamous reputation, people noticed something else: it changed.
Blueprints showed the house was a modest two-story with three bedrooms and a single bathroom. But anyone who stepped inside told a different story. Hallways seemed longer than they should be, twisting and turning back on themselves. Rooms appeared in places they hadn't been before, their dimensions unsettlingly wrong—ceilings too high, corners too sharp.
"Didn't there used to be a staircase here?" someone would ask, only to find themselves staring into an abyss where the stairs had once been.
And the basement… No one who went down to the basement ever came back.
The house didn't just twist space—it whispered.
At first, it was faint, almost imperceptible. A hum in the walls, like wind squeezing through cracks. But if you stayed long enough, you'd start to hear voices.
They were soft at first, murmuring your name in tones that sounded almost familiar. Then, they grew louder, calling from behind closed doors or just out of sight. Sometimes, they sounded like loved ones.
"Help me," they'd beg.
"Don't leave me here."
But if you followed the voices, you'd find nothing. Just more hallways. More doors. And the overwhelming feeling that something was watching you.
The Hollow House became a challenge for thrill-seekers. Ghost hunters, skeptics, and daredevils—all entered with cameras and confidence. None left with either.
One particularly ambitious YouTuber, Sarah Kay, livestreamed her experience, determined to expose the house as a hoax.
Her stream started like any other, with bright lights and joking commentary. "C'mon, guys," she said to her audience. "It's just an empty house. What's the worst that could happen?"
At first, it was uneventful. Dusty furniture, creaking floors. Then, her camera caught something behind her—just for a moment. A figure, too tall and too thin, its face blurred like static.
The chat exploded: "Did you see that?!"
Sarah laughed nervously. "It's just the shadows," she said.
But the figure appeared again. This time closer.
"Alright, guys, I'm getting out of here," Sarah said, her voice shaking.
She turned back to the front door, but it wasn't there anymore. The hallway stretched endlessly, doors on either side yawning open into blackness.
"Hello?" she called.
Her livestream glitched, the screen flickering with distorted images—a face that wasn't hers, hands clawing at the walls, something dragging itself across the floor.
The stream ended abruptly, and Sarah was never heard from again.
The house grew darker with every victim. Neighbors began hearing screaming at night, muffled and distant, as if coming from beneath the ground.
Then came the faces in the windows.
They didn't move or blink—just stared. Some swore they recognized them as people who had disappeared inside the house. Others claimed the faces shifted when you weren't looking, grinning when you turned away.
When the town tried to burn the house down, the flames refused to catch. Gasoline soaked the walls, but the matches fizzled as if the house was mocking their efforts.
One worker who had approached the house with a sledgehammer vanished in plain sight.
"He was standing right there," his coworker said, shaking. "Then he wasn't."
The Hollow House still stands.
Its windows are dark, its doors ajar, its walls pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. Sometimes, people passing by swear they see lights flickering inside or hear faint knocking from within.
The bravest—or the most foolish—venture close enough to peer inside.
The last thing they ever see is their own reflection, staring back at them from the other side of the doorway, smiling.