Yesterday, I was murdered.
I can scarcely believe the words even as I write them, but it is true. My name is Lucas Graham, and this is my confession. If you are reading this, it means I have failed to stop what I set in motion, and for that, I am deeply sorry.
The Whispering House
It all began with a simple curiosity about an old house on the outskirts of town. The locals called it the “Whispering House” because, at night, you could hear soft, indistinct voices coming from within. Naturally, I dismissed it as a local legend. My fatal mistake was deciding to prove them wrong.
I entered the house at dusk, armed with only a flashlight and a digital recorder. The moment I crossed the threshold, a chilling breeze swept through me, as if the house exhaled a cold, deathly breath. The air inside was thick with dust and the scent of decay. Every step I took was met with the groaning protest of the old wooden floorboards.
I made my way to the living room, where I found an old, tattered armchair facing a decrepit fireplace. The room felt lived in, despite its obvious abandonment. It was then that I heard the whispers. Faint, almost inaudible, but definitely there. I turned on my recorder, hoping to capture the sounds for later analysis.
“Lucas…”
The whisper of my name sent a shiver down my spine. I convinced myself it was just my imagination, but deep down, I knew better. I followed the sound, which led me to a narrow staircase descending into the darkness. Every instinct screamed at me to turn back, but I pressed on.
The Mirror’s Curse
At the bottom of the stairs, I found a small, dimly lit basement. In the center was an old, ornate mirror, its glass fogged with age. As I approached, the whispers grew louder, more insistent. I reached out to wipe the dust from the mirror, and that’s when I saw it. My reflection was not my own. It was twisted, monstrous, with hollow eyes and a gaping mouth that seemed to scream silently.
I stumbled back, tripping over something on the floor. It was a journal, bound in cracked leather. I picked it up and began to read. The entries were written in a frantic, almost illegible hand. They spoke of a curse, of a spirit trapped within the mirror, desperate to escape. The final entry chilled me to my core:
“I have failed. The spirit has taken my place. If you are reading this, beware the mirror. It seeks another to free it.”
I dropped the journal and turned to flee, but it was too late. The whispers became a deafening roar, and the room grew cold, so unbearably cold. I felt a presence behind me, and when I turned, I saw myself. Or rather, the twisted reflection from the mirror. It smiled, a grotesque, malevolent grin, and spoke in my voice.
“Thank you, Lucas. You have freed me.”
Darkness enveloped me, and I felt my life force being pulled from my body. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The last thing I remember is collapsing to the floor, feeling my soul being torn away.
The Final Warning
When I awoke, I was back in my apartment, but something was wrong. I felt… different. Hollow. I rushed to the bathroom mirror, and there it was. My reflection, staring back at me with those same hollow eyes and that gaping, screaming mouth. The realization hit me like a truck: I was trapped. My body was no longer my own.
I am writing this now as a warning. The spirit that inhabits my body will come for you next. It seeks to spread its curse, to find new hosts. If you are reading this, burn the mirror. Destroy it before it can claim another victim. And please, for your own sake, do not listen to the whispers.
Remember me, and know that I did not die in vain. I was murdered by my own curiosity, by the evil lurking in that accursed house. Beware the mirror, and may you have the strength to do what I could not.
Lucas Graham
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If you enjoyed this story, then you should read or listen to Trapped in the Haunted House of Ravenwood
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