As I stand near the doorway, there is a ghostly feeling that crawls up my spine. The door begins to creak, and the wind howls through the curtains and into the off-white room. I look around to take note of the state of the room in which I have entered. I notice a few different layers of paint peeling from the ceiling and windowsill, a desk left messy with papers written in a shaky cursive pattern, and a bed left half-made. I slowly turn and walk towards the desk, its’ pull magnetic.
My eye lands upon an old, tattered book, one that contained many mysteries. The lettering on the spine has a gold tinge and shines brightly in the small lamp light from the corner. As I pick up the book, a gush of wind blows through the window, startling the papers lying loose on the desk. The wind brings a chill to the back of my neck, causing me to shiver. I rush to the window to try and shut it to help ease the fear that is rushing through me. Perhaps it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. I close the clasp on the dilapidated window, hoping that it keeps whatever is outside locked out. I turn towards the door and close it behind me, locking it with the skeleton key.
As I walk back up the stairs towards my current dwelling place, I realize that I have taken the antiquated book. Somehow, I fear that it may be the cause of may paranoia, but I continue on my journey to my room. I hear my name in a faint whisper, dragging on each letter. I stop in my tracks, slowly turning, against my better judgement towards the voice. My intrigue spurs me back into the living room where the fireplace glows red-hot with coal embers. As I make my way towards it, I seek out the voice that beckons me closer. I stare into the void with unwavering eyes and an image starts to take shape. I gaze in unbelief as one of my worst nightmares manifests in front of me: my own reflection.