Nightmare Gallery: A Treasury of Twisted Terror Tales

The Collector's Room

The estate sale was larger than anything Tasha had ever seen. A sprawling Victorian house sat at the end of a gravel driveway, surrounded by oak trees whose gnarled branches twisted against the overcast sky. The late owner, an eccentric recluse named Eldridge Cartwright, had amassed a lifetime's worth of antiques, curiosities, and forgotten relics, all of which were up for sale.

Tasha wasn't there for the furniture or the dusty bookshelves. She thrived on finding the strange and unusual, the overlooked treasures tucked in corners where no one else cared to look. Her side hustle of reselling oddities had turned into a full-blown obsession.

"This is perfect," she whispered to herself as she approached the front door.

Inside, the house was a labyrinth. Tables cluttered with clocks, porcelain figurines, and vintage knick-knacks lined the walls. People milled about, haggling over prices and carrying off their finds. The air smelled faintly of mildew and varnish.

But it wasn't the main floor that caught Tasha's attention—it was the door at the end of the hall, the one marked with a simple brass plaque: PRIVATE COLLECTION.

She overheard one of the staff members explaining to a customer.
"That room isn't part of the sale. Mr. Cartwright's collection is... delicate. No one's allowed in there."

Tasha's curiosity burned. She pretended to browse for a while, but her eyes kept darting to the door. It wasn't guarded, just firmly shut.

By the time most of the crowd had thinned out, she decided to take her chance.

She waited until the staff was distracted and slipped down the hallway. Her heart pounded as she turned the knob. It wasn't locked. The door creaked open, revealing a narrow staircase that descended into the basement.

The air grew colder with every step. A faint, metallic smell hung in the air, making her wrinkle her nose. At the bottom of the stairs, she found herself in a dimly lit room, illuminated by a single bare bulb that swung gently from the ceiling.

The room was lined with shelves, and every inch of space was filled with... things. Strange things.

There were jars filled with murky liquid, each containing something unidentifiable—a curled-up fetus of an animal she couldn't recognize, a severed bird wing, an array of teeth that didn't seem to belong to any one species.

On another shelf sat masks—wooden, porcelain, leather—each with hollow eyes that seemed to follow her as she moved. A row of dolls sat on a nearby table, their faces cracked, their glassy eyes staring blankly ahead.

In the center of the room was a glass display case. Tasha approached it, drawn by the item inside. It was a small, hand-carved wooden box, no bigger than a cigar case. Its surface was etched with intricate patterns, symbols that looked vaguely Celtic. A brass latch held it shut.

A note was taped to the glass: DO NOT OPEN.

Tasha grinned. "Yeah, right," she muttered.

She lifted the glass lid of the display case and picked up the box. It was heavier than she expected, its surface smooth and cold to the touch. She ran her fingers over the carvings, tracing the patterns. Something about it felt... alive, as if it pulsed faintly under her fingertips.

Ignoring the warning, she flicked the latch open.

The lid creaked as it opened, and a low, almost imperceptible hum filled the room. Inside the box was a single object: a black stone, polished to a mirror-like sheen. It reflected her face, distorted and rippling, like the surface of water.

As she stared into it, a voice—soft and lilting—whispered in her ear.
"Hello, Tasha."

She gasped and dropped the box, stumbling back. It hit the ground with a heavy thud, the lid snapping shut. The room was silent again, but something had changed.

The air felt heavier, pressing against her chest. The shadows in the room seemed darker, deeper. She glanced at the shelves, and for a moment, she swore the jars were vibrating, the things inside them twitching.

Her instincts screamed at her to leave, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching her—something that would follow her if she turned her back.

"Who's there?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

The lightbulb above her flickered, casting the room into brief darkness before buzzing back to life. The masks on the wall seemed closer now, their hollow eyes more intense.

And then, she heard it—a soft scratching sound, like nails scraping against wood. It came from behind her.

Slowly, she turned.

The box was open again.

The black stone was gone, and in its place was a small, withered hand. It was no larger than a child's, its fingers curled into a claw. The scratching sound grew louder, and Tasha realized with horror that the hand was moving, dragging itself out of the box.

She backed away, but the hand dropped to the floor and began to crawl toward her, its nails clicking against the tiles.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "This isn't real."

The hand stopped. For a moment, the room was silent again. Then, in a sudden burst of motion, it launched itself at her.

Tasha screamed as it latched onto her ankle, its grip impossibly strong. She stumbled and fell, kicking desperately, but the hand began to climb up her leg, its nails digging into her skin.

She scrambled to her feet and grabbed the nearest object—a heavy brass candlestick. She swung it with all her strength, smashing the hand. It crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Panting, she backed away, her eyes darting around the room. The shadows seemed to shift and writhe, and the jars on the shelves were now shaking violently.

A voice echoed through the room, low and guttural.
"You shouldn't have touched it."

The masks on the wall began to laugh, their hollow eyes filling with black ichor that dripped down their faces. The dolls on the table turned their heads in unison, their cracked lips forming silent words.

The room was alive now, and Tasha was at its mercy.

She ran for the stairs, her heart pounding in her chest. The walls seemed to close in around her, the air growing colder with every step. She could hear the laughter behind her, growing louder, more distorted.

When she reached the top of the stairs, she slammed the door shut behind her and bolted it. She leaned against it, gasping for breath.

But the house was silent.

The staff had disappeared, and the once-busy estate sale was now eerily empty. The sunlight streaming through the windows seemed wrong—dim and gray, as if filtered through smoke.

She stumbled out the front door, desperate to put as much distance as possible between herself and the house.

But as she reached her car, she froze.

In the passenger seat, sitting neatly in the center, was the wooden box. The latch was undone, and the lid was slightly ajar.

And from inside, she heard the soft, lilting voice again.
"Hello, Tasha."