The Haunted Pink Mansion

The first time I saw the pink mansion, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Its pastel walls gleamed in the sunlight, an odd color for such a large, foreboding structure. But that was part of its charm. I was new to the town, and when I found out the mansion was available for rent at an absurdly low price, I couldn’t believe my luck. A whole mansion? To myself?

Of course, the locals had warned me. “That place is cursed,” one of them told me at the grocery store when I casually mentioned where I’d be moving. “Nobody lasts more than a few weeks. People hear things in the night, see shadows where there shouldn’t be any.”

I laughed it off. Typical small-town ghost stories. I didn’t believe in that stuff—never had.

But that night, as I stood outside the mansion with the keys in my hand, staring up at its many dark windows, a shiver ran down my spine. The mansion seemed to loom over me, as though it had been waiting all this time just for me.

Shaking off the feeling, I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The air was musty, like no one had been here in years. My footsteps echoed through the grand hallway, bouncing off the high ceilings and polished wooden floors. The rooms were mostly empty except for a few pieces of dusty old furniture, but that only added to the eerie atmosphere.

The first couple of nights were uneventful. I spent most of my time unpacking and exploring the mansion’s endless rooms. There was something oddly comforting about being alone in such a massive space. I liked the quiet, the solitude. At least, I thought I did.

It started on the third night. I had just climbed into bed when I heard a soft creaking sound. At first, I thought it was the house settling. Old houses make noises, right? But then I heard it again—this time louder. Like footsteps.

My heart pounded in my chest as I strained to listen. The footsteps grew closer, slowly creeping down the hallway outside my room.

I sat up in bed, my eyes wide. “Hello?” I called out, trying to keep my voice steady.

The footsteps stopped.

I waited, holding my breath, but there was no response. After a few moments of silence, I convinced myself it was nothing—just the wind or an animal outside. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—had been right outside my door.

The next morning, I brushed it off as paranoia. Sleep deprivation, I told myself. But that night, the sounds returned. This time, they didn’t stop at my door. I heard a faint scratching on the walls, like fingernails dragging across the wallpaper. Then whispers—so soft I could barely make them out, but definitely there.

I bolted out of bed, turned on every light in the house, and checked every corner, every closet. No one was there. I didn’t sleep at all that night, too afraid to close my eyes.

The following day, I thought about moving out. But I’d paid up for the month, and besides, it was just a house. It couldn’t hurt me. I wasn’t going to let some strange noises chase me away.

That evening, I decided to explore the mansion further. There was one part of the house I hadn’t ventured into yet—the basement. The door to it was old, the wood swollen from years of moisture. I had to put my shoulder into it to get it open.

The basement was cold and damp, with a faint smell of rot. I clicked on my flashlight and descended the creaky stairs. As the beam of light swept across the stone walls, I noticed something odd. There was a door at the far end of the room, partially hidden behind an old bookshelf. A door I hadn’t seen in any of the house’s blueprints.

Curiosity gnawed at me, and I pushed the bookshelf aside. The door was small, barely large enough for a person to squeeze through. I hesitated for a moment but then twisted the knob and pulled.

A gust of cold air hit me as the door swung open, revealing a narrow tunnel lined with jagged stones. My heart raced, but I couldn’t turn back now. I stepped inside.

The tunnel seemed to stretch on forever. Just as I was about to turn around, I noticed something ahead—a faint light flickering at the end. I quickened my pace, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.

When I reached the end of the tunnel, I stepped into a small, dimly lit room. In the center of the room stood a mirror. An old, ornate mirror, its surface warped and grimy.

I stared at my reflection, but something was wrong. The face looking back at me—it wasn’t mine. The eyes were hollow, the skin pale and lifeless. It looked like me, but not quite.

Then the reflection smiled—a wide, unnatural grin that stretched too far across its face.

I stumbled back, my breath caught in my throat. The mirror... it was showing me something else. Something I wasn’t supposed to see.

Suddenly, the whispers I had heard before returned, louder now, echoing in the small room. "She's here... she's here..." they chanted.

I spun around, ready to bolt back through the tunnel. But the entrance was gone. The tunnel had disappeared, replaced by solid stone. I was trapped.

Panic set in. I pounded on the walls, screaming for help, but the stone wouldn’t budge. Then I felt it—a cold hand on my shoulder.

I whipped around, but no one was there. The whispers were deafening now, surrounding me, filling the room. I backed up toward the mirror, my eyes wide with terror.

And then I saw it—the figure from my reflection was standing behind me. Only, it wasn’t just a reflection anymore. It was real.

It reached for me with cold, bony fingers, and as they touched my skin, I felt the life drain out of me. My vision blurred, the world spinning. The last thing I saw before everything went dark was my own reflection—smiling back at me from the mirror.

Now I’m trapped here, in the mansion, just like everyone else before me. You see, the haunted pink mansion doesn’t just take your sanity. It takes you—your soul, your identity. And when the next person moves in, it will be me they hear walking down the hallway at night, whispering to them, waiting for them to discover the mirror...

Just like you.