There was once a young woman named Ava who lived in a small town. She was reserved and often kept to herself, but she had a secret passion for singing. When it rained, she would go outside and sing at the top of her lungs, letting the rain wash away...
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She explored the vast, empty rooms, each more desolate than the last. Dust coated every surface, and the faint scent of decay lingered in the air. In the grand hall, a portrait caught her eye-a painting of a young woman, eerily similar to Eleanor. Her eyes were hollow, her expression one of sorrow and despair.
†Then the second chapter starts † Eleanor felt a chill run down her spine as she gazed at the painting. The woman's eyes seemed to follow her, boring into her soul. She quickly turned away, her heart pounding.
That night, Eleanor could hardly sleep. The wind howled outside, and the house seemed to creak and sigh with each gust. But it wasn't the wind that k
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That night, Eleanor could hardly sleep. The wind howled outside, and the house seemed to creak and sigh with each gust. But it wasn't the wind that kept her awake-it was the feeling of being watched. She sensed a presence in the room, something unseen but unmistakably real.
In the early hours of the morning, she heard a faint whisper, soft as a breath but clear as day. "Eleanor..."
She sat up in bed, her heart racing. The room was dark, the only light coming from the pale moon filtering through the tattered curtains. The whisper came again, closer this time.
"Eleanor..."
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She followed the sound, her feet moving of their own accord. It led her down the grand staircase, past the portrait in the hall, and into the depths of the manor. The whisper grew louder, more insistent, until it became a wail-a cry of anguish that echoed through the halls.
The sound drew her to a door at the end of a long corridor. It was locked, but with a trembling hand, she found the key in her pocket. She had no memory of putting it there, but it felt warm, almost alive.
The door creaked open, revealing a small, dimly lit room. In the center stood an old, ornate mirror, its glass cracked and fogged with age. Eleanor stepped closer, her reflection wavering in the dim light.
As she gazed into the mirror, the glass began to ripple like water. The reflection of the woman in the portrait appeared, her hollow eyes filled with sorrow. Eleanor gasped, but her feet were rooted to the spot.
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See you in the third chapter.. (◔‿◔)
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