Elias Gray didn't believe in ghosts.
He believed in overdue tuition bills, in roaches crawling through his dorm kitchen sink, in the slow suffocation of student loans. But ghosts? Haunted houses? That was B-movie trash for people who didn't have real problems.
Still, the key in his hand told another story.
It was ancient. Iron, cold even under the summer sun, with a shape that didn't match any lock Elias had ever seen. Its teeth were long and jagged, like someone had forged it from a broken jawbone. It felt heavy—not just in weight, but in presence.
He sat in the driver's seat of his beat-up Camry, parked outside the rusted gates of Black Hollow Estate. The mansion loomed behind the trees, hidden mostly by ivy, shadow, and fog. It was as if the forest itself wanted to strangle the place back into the ground.
The letter from the lawyer sat on the passenger seat beside him.
Mr. Gray, we regret to inform you of the passing of your grandfather, Warren Gray. As the last surviving heir, you have inherited the full estate located in Black Hollow, Maine. Enclosed you will find the property key. We advise caution upon entry. The house is in a state of advanced disrepair.
Caution? What were they expecting him to do—get mauled by a chandelier?
Elias exhaled sharply and stepped out. The forest around the estate was eerily quiet. No birds. No insects. Even the wind seemed reluctant to pass through.
The wrought-iron gate groaned open when he turned the key, protesting like something in pain. Weeds cracked under his boots as he walked the overgrown path to the front door. The house emerged slowly from behind the fog—three stories tall, its slate roof broken in places, its shutters hanging like loose teeth.
The front door was carved from black wood, split slightly at the center from age. A large iron knocker, shaped like a wolf's head, stared him down.
He reached for the handle. Cold.
It opened without a sound.
The interior was darker than it should have been. The windows were tall and wide, but barely any light filtered through the dusty glass. Elias coughed as he stepped inside, the air thick with mildew and something... metallic.
Blood? No. Rust. Probably.
The grand hall stretched wide, lined with portraits of grim-faced ancestors. A stairway curved up to the second floor, where a chandelier hung like a skeletal crown. The floor creaked beneath his weight.
He pulled out his phone.
No service.
Of course.
"Hello?" he called out. His voice echoed, then vanished into silence.
He waited.
Nothing answered.
Elias exhaled again, longer this time. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath.
The mansion's layout was familiar in that way old houses often were—long hallways, high ceilings, rooms filled with forgotten furniture draped in white sheets. Every door he opened brought a new wave of dust and decay. Wallpaper peeled like burnt skin. Floors buckled. Shadows clung to corners.
But there was no furniture toppled. No signs of rodents or squatters.
It was empty. Preserved.
Like it had been waiting for him.
In the study, he found the first real piece of his grandfather. The room was lined with shelves—hundreds of books, some handwritten, some printed on paper so old it crumbled at the edges.
The desk in the corner was cleared, save for one item.
A journal.
Leather-bound, its cover stained dark brown, though he wasn't sure if it was age or something else. His grandfather's name, Warren Gray, was carved in the bottom corner.
He opened it.
October 5th. It moved again. I heard it in the east hall. The door was open. I never open that door.
October 7th. I sealed the basement. Boarded it. Nailed it shut. I still hear scratching from below. I think it's growing.
October 11th. To whomever finds this: Burn this place. The house is a mouth, and it remembers. The Hollow is not a place. It's a hunger.
Elias blinked. Turned the page.
The rest was filled with sketches. Symbols. Diagrams of the house, but distorted hallways where none existed. Staircases that led nowhere. He flipped through page after page of frantic handwriting and spiraling symbols until the ink began to bleed off the pages.
The last entry was scrawled violently:
IT WANTS A NAME.
He snapped the journal shut.
Behind him, something creaked.
He turned.
Nothing.
Just the doorway and the dark hall beyond it. But the study door, which he was sure he'd left open, was now half closed.
He walked over and opened it wide.
"Must've swung shut," he muttered.
But the air was still. Heavy.
He left the study and explored more of the first floor, trying to shake off the chill crawling up his spine. Kitchen. Pantry. Dining room with a table long enough to host a banquet for twenty. Each room was like a still life of rot. Plates left out. Cups were covered in dust. Chairs were slightly moved from the table, like someone had stood up, but no one had come back.
Upstairs, he found the master bedroom.
It looked barely used. The bed was made. The curtains were drawn. On the nightstand, a picture frame. He picked it up.
His grandfather stood next to a woman Elias didn't recognize—pale, with sharp eyes and a mouth set in a grim line. Behind them, the house loomed.
There was a small child in the corner of the photo. Elias. Maybe four years old.
He didn't remember that day. He didn't remember her.
He set the photo down.
Another creak.
This time from behind.
He spun.
The hallway was empty. Long and quiet. The lightbulbs in the ceiling were dead, but the sun barely filtered in from the dirt-covered windows.
Still, Elias felt something.
Not watched, exactly.
Expected.
That night, he slept on the couch in the study, the journal beside him. He didn't feel safe leaving it alone.
He dreamt of a house with no walls—only doors. Endless doors that opened into blackness. And behind each one, something was breathing.
The next morning, Elias woke up to music.
Faint, distant piano music echoing from somewhere upstairs.
He blinked. Sat up.
The house was silent again.
He grabbed his phone. Still no service.
Cautiously, he crept up the staircase again, listening.
The music didn't return.
But the last door on the third floor, a narrow one with iron hinges, was open.
He hadn't opened it.
Inside was a narrow attic hallway lined with paintings. The portraits here were different—newer. Modern. Their faces, however, were blank. White canvas where the features should be. All except one.
At the very end of the hall hung a painting of a woman.
The same woman from the photo.
Only now, her eyes were missing. Torn from the canvas. Long scratches ran across her mouth. Beneath it, a brass nameplate read: Clara Gray.
Elias turned away and paused.
The hallway behind him... felt longer.
Wasn't it shorter when he entered?
He started back, walking faster.
Another creak behind him.
He didn't look back.
That night, the dreams came again.
Doors opening.
Something was walking through them.
A voice whispering his name.
Elias...
He woke in sweat. The journal had fallen open beside him.
A new page had been written.
In a different handwriting.
Don't let it out.
He didn't write it.
He didn't know who had.
But the door to the study was open again.
And this time, he remembered closing it.