The Hollow House
Eleanor Harrow had lived in Blackwood Manor for as long as she could remember. The towering mansion, with its winding halls and cavernous rooms, was her refuge from the world. Each day, she roamed the corridors, tracing her fingers along the faded wallpaper, listening to the hush of the wind through the cracked windows.
Blackwood Manor had been in her family for generations. It stood on the edge of a desolate moor, where the fog rarely lifted, and the trees twisted as if whispering secrets. Eleanor seldom left the property; she preferred the stillness of the house, the way it seemed to breathe around her.
But something had changed. Recently, she had begun to feel... unsettled.
It began with the whispers. At first, she thought they were the wind, but then they grew distinct—soft voices echoing through the halls. When she followed them, she found nothing. Then came the flickering lights, the way the chandelier in the great hall would shudder without cause, and the shadows that pooled in the corners, darker than they should have been.
One evening, as she descended the grand staircase, she saw a candle flicker to life on the dining table. The flame danced without a source, casting elongated shadows against the high walls. A chill coiled around her spine.
"Who’s there?" she called, her voice swallowed by the vast emptiness of the house. Silence answered her.
Sleep eluded her that night. She lay in bed, staring at the canopy overhead, listening to the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the hallway.
And then she heard it.
A sob.
It was faint, almost imperceptible, but it carried through the walls. It wasn’t hers.
Heart pounding, Eleanor rose and stepped barefoot onto the cold wooden floor. She followed the sound down the corridor, past locked doors and dust-covered portraits, until she reached the ballroom. The sobbing had ceased. But in the dim moonlight that seeped through the tall windows, she saw something that made her blood turn to ice.
A woman stood in the center of the room.
Eleanor’s breath hitched. The woman was dressed in an old-fashioned gown, her long hair cascading over her shoulders. But what sent terror clawing through Eleanor’s chest was the familiarity of her face. It was her own.
Eleanor staggered back, gripping the doorframe. "Who—what—are you?"
The woman turned, her eyes wide with sorrow. And then Eleanor saw the truth. The woman wasn’t standing. She was floating. Her feet hovered inches above the floor, her form flickering like mist caught in a breeze.
A memory crashed into her like a tidal wave. The storm. The accident. The way she had fallen, her head striking the marble staircase. The cold, the darkness that had swallowed her whole.
No. It couldn’t be. She had lived here all her life. She had walked these halls, felt the floor beneath her feet, breathed the dust-filled air.
Hadn’t she?
Trembling, Eleanor turned and ran. She raced through the halls, past the parlor, the grand library, the portraits of her ancestors who watched her with knowing eyes. She reached the front door and grasped the handle, yanking it with all her might.
It didn’t budge.
She screamed. Pounded against the wood until her fists ached. But the door remained sealed, as it always had been.
A voice behind her whispered, "You cannot leave."
She turned slowly. The woman—her ghost—stood there, sadness carved into her face. "You must remember, Eleanor."
Eleanor shook her head, pressing her hands to her ears. "No. I’m alive. I’ve always been here."
"Yes," the specter said. "But you’ve never been alone."
The memories returned, each one sharper than the last. The way she had always heard footsteps in the hall when no one was there. The way doors would open before she reached them. The way she never saw another soul, no visitors, no servants, no family.
Because she was the ghost.
A sob racked her body. "How long?"
"A century," the spirit whispered. "You have wandered these halls, unable to see the truth. But now, you remember. And now... you must let go."
Eleanor’s knees buckled, and she sank to the floor. A century? She had been trapped here for a hundred years, clinging to the remnants of a life long past. The weight of it pressed down on her like an anchor.
She closed her eyes. She thought of warmth, of sunlight on her skin, of the voices of loved ones whose faces had faded from memory. And then, slowly, she let them go.
A warmth spread through her, light as air. She opened her eyes and saw the specter smiling—a bittersweet smile. The mansion around her shimmered, its walls turning to mist. The weight of eternity lifted from her chest.
Eleanor took one last look at Blackwood Manor, at the only home she had ever known. And then, with a final breath, she stepped forward.
The house sighed. The wind carried her name one last time.
And Eleanor Harrow was gone.