Some houses don’t want to be sold. And some stories don’t want to be forgotten…
Marcus, a young real estate agent, was assigned to prepare the old Everwell House for a quick sale. He thought it was just another job for him. The property had been vacant for over twelve years. It was located at the edge of a fog-draped forest in a sleepy rural town. Locals called it cursed, but Marcus didn’t believe in superstition.
He arrived just before dusk. A checklist, camera, and keys jangled in his coat pocket. The house was intact. No graffiti. No signs of animals. Just dust. A lot of dust.
“Creepy old thing.” He stepped into the front hall. His voice echoed unnaturally.
He walked from room to room. Snapped photos. Everything seemed untouched. A teacup still sat beside an old armchair. A half-knit scarf on the armrest. It was like the last tenant had vanished mid-morning.
Upstairs, he found the master bedroom locked.
The key didn’t work.
That’s when he noticed the note slid under the door. Faded. Fragile.
“Do not open. It remembers.”
Marcus laughed nervously. “Cute. A little local theater.”
Still, the door bothered him.
He finished his inspection. And when he tried to leave, the front door wouldn’t budge.
“Deadbolt. Stuck?”
He tugged harder.
The windows wouldn’t open either. None of them. As if the house had sealed shut.
Suddenly-
A click.
The sound of a door unlocking upstairs.
Marcus turned slowly.
It was the master bedroom.
He crept up the stairs. Flashlight shook in his hand.
The door to the master bedroom was slightly opened.
Inside was a four-poster bed. Untouched. A large mirror facing the door. But Marcus’s reflection wasn’t quite right. It blinked out of sync. Delayed. Slightly off.
He moved his hand. The reflection mimicked him—then smiled.
Marcus hadn’t smiled.
He backed out quickly and shut the door.
But the reflection kept watching him.
From inside the mirror.
That night, he tried to sleep on the living room couch. His phone had no signal. The power flickered. And at exactly 3:13 AM, he heard footsteps above him.
Slow. Deliberate.
He didn’t go upstairs. He didn’t breathe.
The next morning, he found the mirror shattered. But the shards all reflected different angles. None of them was accurate.
One showed a pale, eyeless version of him screaming in a corner.
Another showed the bed—occupied.
By something twitching.
He needed to leave. Now.
He pried open a back window with a crowbar and escaped.
But when he returned to his car—it was gone.
No tire tracks. No sign he had ever driven there.
The forest loomed behind the house… but when he looked again, it wasn’t there.
Just more houses. Identical to Everwell.
Ten of them.
Twenty.
Hundreds.
Each one exactly the same.
He ran from door to door.
All locked.
All empty.
Except for one.
It was open. A light inside.
He entered—gasping.
It was Everwell again.
The same teacup. The same scarf. The same sound of something moving upstairs.
He wasn’t outside.
He had never escaped.
Everwell wasn’t a house. It was a trap. A loop. A memory playing over and over—feeding on fear.
He was the next tenant.
And as the master bedroom door creaked open again, he saw his own reflection smiling at him.
This time, it blinked first.
They say Everwell House is empty. But if you listen closely… you can still hear the last tenant… screaming to be let out.