Recently, I’ve had this unsettling feeling—like I’m not alone in the house. I’m a professional haunted house tester, and this is my final five days in what is known as the “most haunted mansion in the country.” But today, when I woke up, my live stream’s comment section exploded. 0″Two grand a night—stay for 30 days. Do you dare?” When my dad needed an expensive medical procedure, and all I could think about was how to make quick cash, I took the offer without hesitation. Dare? Of course, I dare. Who wouldn’t take that kind of money? To make the most of it, I started live streaming my stay. On the first day, viewers tipped me like crazy, even asking me to check every room in the mansion. There was nothing unusual. The place was dusty, the faucets were slightly rusted, and it was clear no one had lived here for a long time. “Boring. This is supposed to be the most haunted house? Nothing creepy at all.” “Yeah, are you sure you checked every room?” The comments kept coming, and I felt a little guilty. I smiled awkwardly and said, “Guys, I swear I’ve checked everywhere. Nothing strange to report.” “Maybe the ‘haunted’ thing is just a gimmick.” I lied to them. There was one room I hadn’t checked—the one right next to mine. It wasn’t because I was scared of what might be inside. The door wouldn’t open. I knew my audience too well: the more a door refuses to open, the more they’ll insist I break it down. But I couldn’t risk damaging the property. The decor alone screamed “expensive,” and breaking the lock would probably cost me my entire paycheck—maybe even more. Forget saving up for my dad’s treatment, I’d be broke. So, I brushed it off. My audience bought the excuse and focused on trying to spot something paranormal at night. They failed. Meanwhile, I ate well, slept soundly, and carried on without a care. More than half the month flew by, and my live stream’s audience dwindled to just four or five regular viewers. At least one familiar username was still there, so I wasn’t completely alone. With only five days left, I didn’t expect anything exciting to happen. But deep down, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. Recently, I’ve had this strange sensation—like there’s someone else in the house. For example, I spend most of my time in one bedroom, but I keep hearing faint shuffling sounds outside. Or how the TV remote on the couch always goes missing, and the ashtray on the coffee table seems slightly out of place every time I look at it. Then, there was the time I left my dishes on the dining table after lunch. By evening, when I went to make dinner, I reached for the plates to clean them. But I froze. I’m left-handed, so I always place my chopsticks on the left side of the plate. Why were they now on the right? I swallowed hard, my nerves on edge, but I forced myself to act normal and quietly cleaned up. From that moment on, I started paying closer attention. I made sure to leave my chopsticks on the left every single time. I didn’t mention any of this during the live stream. I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure. Then it happened again. The chopsticks were on the right. This time, my chest tightened, and I couldn’t ignore it anymore. Am I really the only one in this house? By Day 26, I was counting down the hours, praying for the time to pass so I could collect my money and leave. But what I didn’t expect—what I couldn’t have imagined—was waking up to find my live stream trending, ranked #2 in popularity. The comment section was flooded, with messages flying so fast I could barely read them. When I finally managed to make out a single comment, my blood ran cold: “Run, get out now!” 0
I froze. Run? A chill crept up from the soles of my feet. “What do you mean, run? What’s going on?” Panic crept into my voice as I stared at the screen. My reflection in the lens looked twisted and tense, but I didn’t care. My hands flew across the screen, scrolling through the flood of comments, trying to pick out any useful information. Finally, a few comments from twenty minutes ago caught my eye: “Miss, the wardrobe door opened! Wake up!” “Holy crap, why is there a doll in there?!” The wardrobe? I whipped my head around to look at it. It stood there silently, completely closed. Not a single sign that it had been opened. I forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach my eyes. “You must’ve been imagining things.” “Get out of there now!” “Why are you just standing there? RUN!” The comments became more frantic, angry even, as if they couldn’t believe I wasn’t reacting. Someone even sent me a big tip, writing: “Run, and I’ll send you more!” My feet felt like they were encased in cement. I couldn’t move. Was it because I didn’t want to leave? No. If I left now, I’d break the contract. How would I pay for my dad’s treatment then? No. I couldn’t leave. That’s when I noticed my phone battery was almost dead. I quickly grabbed my charger. “Sorry, everyone, my phone’s dying—wait, what the hell? The power just went out!” The comment section exploded into chaos. But I just frowned at the charger in my hand, hesitated for a moment, and shook my head. I couldn’t leave. What do I do now? No electricity, no way to charge my phone. My battery was at 1%. Just as the screen went dark, I saw one last comment that sent a jolt down my spine: “Miss, behind you!” As soon as the phone shut off, I heard it—a faint creak behind me. My body froze. Slowly, I turned my head. The wardrobe door was open. Inside, there was a doll. It wore a brightly colored dress, its glassy black eyes staring out into the room. I don’t know how long I stood there, paralyzed. Then, out of nowhere, I laughed. What am I freaking out about? What’s the big deal? It’s just a doll. It’s not like it’s alive. I wasn’t sure if I was trying to convince myself or someone else. I walked over to the wardrobe, grabbed the doors, and slammed them shut. But just as I did, I felt a shiver run down my spine. For a split second, as the doors closed, I could’ve sworn the doll’s glass eyes were watching me. The power outage was making everything worse. I glanced at the landline phone by the bed. The man who hired me had specifically warned me: “Don’t use the landline unless it’s absolutely necessary.” I hesitated, my hand hovering over the receiver. Then I picked it up and dialed the service line for the gated community. Beep. The line didn’t connect. All I got was a loud, piercing tone. But beneath it, I thought I heard something—something faint, like nails scratching against a wall. A wave of cold washed over me, and a splitting headache flared up behind my eyes. I instinctively touched my left ear, then slowly put the receiver back down. No one was coming to help. I couldn’t leave the property, but I had to figure something out myself. Pushing myself up, I started searching for the electrical box. I made my way down the staircase to the first floor. But when I reached the box, I found nothing wrong. The breakers were fine—the outage wasn’t caused by anything here. I was about to close the panel when something caught my eye. Taped to the top of the box was a small piece of paper. Without thinking, I pulled it down and unfolded it. My hands froze. On the paper, written in elegant handwriting, were the words: “The power’s out, isn’t it? Go upstairs and find the doll!” 0
I froze, gripping the note tightly in my sweaty palm. A prank. This had to be some kind of prank! I rushed back upstairs to the second floor and flung open the wardrobe. Fear was the last thing on my mind—I was furious. Without thinking, I grabbed the doll in its flower-patterned dress. Its glassy black eyes seemed to flicker for a moment. Something fell out from underneath its dress—a journal. I tossed the doll back into the wardrobe and unfolded the journal. The handwriting inside was the same elegant script as the note I’d just found. The first entry was dated May 18 of last year. “I’m so excited. But I’ve already spent an entire day in this so-called haunted house, and nothing has happened.” The next entry came on May 19. “Slept like a baby. I wonder if anything interesting will happen today?” Page after page, the entries described uneventful days. From the tone of the writing, the journal’s author was growing increasingly frustrated, clearly starting to doubt the mansion’s reputation as “haunted.” Was she also hired to test this house, just like me? If someone else had already tested the house last year, why did they hire me to do it again? That man who hired me… he never mentioned this. My stomach churned as a chilling thought crossed my mind. Did something happen to her during the trial? Did she fail to complete her stay? I flipped to the entry dated June 3. My hands began to tremble. “I keep feeling like someone’s been moving my things. Am I imagining it?” June 5: “I keep hearing noises outside my room, but when I check, there’s nothing there. I must be going crazy from being cooped up here for so long.” No. It wasn’t her imagination. I’ve been hearing those noises too. I frantically flipped through the pages, desperate to find something useful. “I heard the wardrobe open. But when I looked inside, there was nothing. How did it open by itself?” “I’m starting to feel scared. The power went out.” The blood drained from my face. My fingers trembled as I turned the page. The date of the entry? The 26th day of her stay. The same day as today. The same power outage. This wasn’t a coincidence. It was deliberate. My breath hitched as I read further. “The landline is useless. It doesn’t connect to anything. I tried to leave, but the front door is locked! That man lied to me!” Locked? That couldn’t be true. I bolted downstairs, cold sweat dripping down my face. I grabbed the doorknob and twisted it. It didn’t budge. The door was locked. Even if I’d wanted to leave today—regardless of the money—I couldn’t. A wave of cold washed over my back. My chest tightened as I gulped hard and shakily returned to the journal, determined to keep reading. “This is insane! They told me the power would be out for five days! I’ve been tricked!” “I’m terrified. That room next to me—the one that’s supposed to be locked—how is it possible that there’s someone in there? I can hear scratching noises coming from the walls!” The journal ended there. Sweat dripped down my forehead as I gripped the journal tightly. Why did it stop? Did she leave the mansion? Or did something happen to her before she could write more? A crushing sense of dread settled over me. No. This can’t be the end of the journal. There has to be more! Just as I was about to turn the next page, the landline phone on the second floor started ringing. 0
I didn’t have time to keep flipping through the journal. Gripping it tightly, I sprinted back to the landline, breathless, and picked up the receiver. A cold, monotonous mechanical voice greeted me. “Hello, due to current electrical issues, your call may experience interruptions. Please state your request.” I didn’t care anymore. I blurted out, “Call the police! I need to get out of here!” “Sorry, I did not understand your request. Please repeat.” “I said, call the police!” My vision blurred as frustration and fear took over. My whole body was tense, my muscles aching from the strain. “Sorry, I did not understand your request. Please repeat.” I collapsed onto the floor, defeated. The journal slipped from my hand and landed beside me. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut: no matter what I said, there would be no help on the other end of the line. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my voice. “How many days will the power be out?” My throat was dry, and I licked my cracked lips. Maybe—just maybe—the journal was wrong. Maybe what it said wasn’t true. “Due to line maintenance in your area, the power will be out for 5 days. Please remain patient.” Beep. The line went dead, like someone had cut it off with precision. Five days. It was true. My last shred of hope was crushed. It was all too perfectly calculated. The moment my question was answered, the phone became useless. I had no choice. I had to save myself. Whatever was causing this—human or not—I couldn’t just sit here and wait for things to happen. A breeze blew in through the window, rustling the pages of the journal. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed new writing had appeared. Shaking, I grabbed the journal again. Skipping over the blank pages, I flipped forward. “At least I have my doll to keep me company.” “She’s the only one I have left.” That flower-dressed doll… it belonged to her? No wonder she wrote about the wardrobe opening and finding it empty. But when I got here, the doll was inside. I kept reading. “Stop flipping through this. The clock is almost at midnight.” I froze. My head snapped up, and I glanced toward the clock in the living room. From this angle, I could see it clearly. It was exactly midnight. From behind the wardrobe, I heard it—the sound of nails scratching against the wall. Sharp, deliberate, and relentless, like someone was clawing at the wall, trying to dig their way through from the locked room next door. Sweat poured down my back, and a thin layer of moisture coated my trembling fingers. Steeling myself, I turned the page. “Since you’ve read this far, let me teach you a few ways to stay alive. Follow these rules exactly!” What? I blinked in disbelief. My heart raced as I continued reading, unable to stop even though every word sent chills down my spine. “On Day 5 of the countdown, you’ll face extreme danger. During the day, you’re free to move around anywhere except the locked room. However, at night, you must lock your door and never, under any circumstances, leave your room.” “You can sleep during the day, but avoid closing your eyes at night. If you absolutely can’t stay awake, hold the doll while you sleep. If the doll goes missing, immediately open your eyes and find it.” “Do not read past this entry until tomorrow.” I let out a shaky laugh. Seriously? This was all I had to do? I already didn’t dare leave my room at night. But the final line felt like a warning. My hand hesitated over the journal. With everything so uncertain, I decided to follow the instructions and closed it. Even though it was still daytime, I didn’t dare leave my room except to grab a quick bite to eat. Afterward, I stayed put. As the hours dragged on and the sky darkened, I made sure to use the bathroom, then locked my door securely. I lay on the bed, clutching my dead phone like it was some kind of lifeline, a tiny source of false comfort. To my left was the flower-dressed doll. Then it began. The scratching sounds returned, relentless and sharp, piercing my ears until they ached. What terrified me the most was the realization of what it meant: Something—someone—was pressed up against the wall, furiously clawing at it with their nails, trying to break through. How long had this been going on? Long enough that the sound was starting to feel normal. That’s when I heard it. A knock at the door.
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