A Collection of Haunted Tales

1. Beneath the Glass

The sun had begun its slow descent, casting a sickly, orange light over the forgotten Holloway estate.

Olivia Holloway hesitated at the iron gates, tangled with creeping ivy that seemed to writhe like serpents in the breeze. A sense of dread prickled her skin, but there was something irresistible about the rotting house that had haunted the edge of the forest for as long as she could remember.

The townsfolk of Ashwick didn't talk anymore about the Holloway family, who had once lived here in grandeur before vanishing almost a century ago. Not openly, at least.
They whispered—always whispered—about the disappearances, the sudden deaths, and the rumors that wrapped themselves around the family like a strangling vine.

Olivia's great-grandparents had abandoned the estate, leaving it to rot in obscurity.
As the last remaining Holloway, it had become her inheritance, a dark legacy she had no desire to claim. She had tried to forget it all, to pretend the house didn't call to her in the dead of night.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, the pull was too strong to ignore.

She had no logical reason to come. The practical part of her mind told her to leave, to forget the run-down house with its sinister past. But her feet moved forward as if guided by an unseen hand, crunching through the weeds that overran the estate's grounds.

The manor, once majestic, stood broken and decayed, its windows gaping like hollowed eyes, staring out at the world in eternal judgment.
The wind howled through the cracks in the stone, carrying with it the faintest sound of a woman's laugh—a laugh that sent ice through Olivia's veins.

She crossed the threshold into the foyer, stepping cautiously over broken tiles and dust. The scent of mildew filled her nostrils as the oppressive silence wrapped around her like a suffocating cloak.

She could feel the weight of the house pressing down on her, as though the walls were closing in, watching.

The floorboards groaned under her weight as she moved through the dark, her hand brushing against the peeling wallpaper.
A shiver ran through her when her fingers grazed something damp and slimy. She yanked her hand away, wiping it on her jeans, the uneasy feeling growing stronger with every step.

Then she saw it.

The mirror.

It stood at the end of a narrow hallway, half-hidden in the shadows. It was enormous, taller than any of the doorways.
Its frame was ornate, intricate with carvings of serpents coiling and writhing around the glass, almost as if they were alive. The surface was impossibly clean, untouched by the dust and decay that choked the rest of the house.

It gleamed in the faint light, inviting, yet wrong.

Her breath hitched as she drew closer.

Something about the mirror felt alive.

It wasn't just reflecting the dim hallway—it seemed to pulse, the darkness inside it shifting, moving.

She stopped a few feet away, her heart pounding in her chest. Her reflection stared back at her, wide-eyed, pale.

And then, behind her, a figure emerged.

Olivia spun around, her pulse racing, but the hallway was empty. She turned back to the mirror, dread pooling in her stomach.

He was still there.

A man stood just behind her reflection. Tall, dressed in a black suit that looked like it belonged in another century, his face was partially hidden by shadow.
But his eyes—his eyes were piercing, deep blue like the ocean in the middle of a storm.