The House on Maple Street

I didn’t think much of the house when I first saw it. It was just another old, run-down place on Maple Street. No one had lived there for years. It was the kind of house you’d cross the street to avoid. But one day, I found myself standing in front of it. There was a strange pull, like I had to see what was inside.

I knocked on the door. No answer. I tried the knob. It was unlocked. I hesitated, then stepped inside. The smell hit me first. Dust. Old wood. Something else, something I couldn’t place.

The inside was dark, but I made my way through the rooms. The wallpaper was peeling, the furniture covered in sheets. But the thing that bothered me the most was the silence. It felt wrong, like the house was holding its breath.

I made my way up to the second floor. The hallway was narrow, and the floors creaked under my feet. Then I saw it. A door, slightly ajar. There was something behind it, I could feel it.

I pushed the door open and froze. In the corner of the room stood a mirror. It wasn’t huge, but it was old, with a dark, ornate frame. I walked closer, not sure why, but I couldn’t stop myself. When I looked into it, I didn’t see my reflection. I saw someone else. A man, standing right behind me, smiling.

I spun around. No one was there. I turned back to the mirror. The man was still there, his smile wider now. I felt a cold chill run down my spine.

“Who are you?” I whispered. But the man didn’t answer. His smile only grew.

I backed away from the mirror, my heart pounding. The door slammed shut behind me. I tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. The house felt like it was closing in on me.

I looked back at the mirror. The man was still there, but now he was closer. His face was pressed against the glass, his eyes wide, like he was trying to get through.

I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The man reached out, his fingers curling toward me, and for the first time, I realized he wasn’t in the mirror. He was inside the room with me.

I stumbled backward, my mind racing. I had to get out. I had to leave. But the man was getting closer. His hand was almost on my shoulder when the mirror shattered.

The glass fell to the floor in a million pieces, but I didn’t wait. I pushed open the door, ran down the stairs, and didn’t stop until I was outside, gasping for air.

I never went back to that house. I don’t know who the man in the mirror was, or what he wanted. But sometimes, when I look into a mirror, I feel like I see him behind me. Waiting.