The ribbed pink crop top felt soft against Malia’s skin. She adjusted the fabric slightly as she stared at her reflection in the antique gilt-edged mirror leaning against the wall of Carmen’s long-forgotten villa. The dim light overhead flickered, the shadows playing tricks with her mind. Behind her, the dark, elongated hall stretched on infinitely, or so it seemed. She shook her head and focused on buttoning up her leather jacket, her dark bottoms catching stray specks of dust from the floorboards.
Malia had come to the villa on a dare, of all things. Carmen, her best friend and part-time troublemaker, had told her over shots of tequila the previous night that the rumors were all nonsense. No one had ever actually seen “the bitter ghost of Madame Fiorella,” but people loved gossiping about cursed mansions. Still, the promise of earning a crisp hundred-dollar bill was enough for Malia to set aside her better judgment and step foot into the abandoned estate. After all, ghosts didn’t exist. Right?
The villa, with its peeling wallpaper and sagging ceiling beams, barely held up against modern time. Yet, there was an odd charm about it. Its decadently decayed elegance made it hard for Malia to pinpoint whether she felt unease or admiration as she explored the main hall. She pocketed her phone as she walked, purposely ignoring the texts from both Carmen and her brother Aaron. “Take pictures,” Carmen had urged. But snapping photos was the last thing on Malia’s mind. Something about being here… made her feel watched.
“Stupid,” she muttered under her breath. She was alone. Completely alone.
The air shifted. It wasn’t the kind of cold that pricked her skin—it was softer, stranger. A faint light caught her eye. Turning, she saw it—a room bathed in crimson hues spilling out past its cracked doorframe. Malia hadn’t noticed it before. It felt inviting, yet… forbidden. Without thinking, she stepped forward. Each footfall seemed unnaturally loud, echoing in the hollow silence of the house.
She hesitated at the door, her fingers brushing against the aged handle. The room beyond was unlike the rest of the villa. It was immaculate, preserved as if time dared not intrude. The walls were painted a deep scarlet red, while golden accents glistened under a warm yellow light coming from an elegant chandelier. The furniture seemed freshly polished, the heavy curtains draped impeccably to frame the tall arched windows.
But it wasn’t the striking decor that held her breath—it was the figure seated in the room’s worn velvet armchair. A woman. Her dark hair cascaded down her back, long and flowing, so hauntingly similar to Malia’s own. The woman wore something simple: a ribbed pink crop top, dark pants, her posture casual, yet confident, her demeanor unnervingly calm. Her face was still as stone, though there was something in her expression—a tiny curl of a smile on her lips, a daring confidence—that made Malia freeze to the spot.
“Who are you?” Malia challenged, attempting to keep her voice steady.
The woman in the chair didn’t respond. Instead, a whisper—soft and chilling—seemed to snake its way into Malia’s ear. It wasn’t coming from the woman. It came from nowhere and everywhere.
Stay… the whisper urged, honeyed and gentle, yet heavy as the weight of thunder. A cold shiver raced up Malia’s spine. She stepped back instinctually but faltered when she noticed the woman’s expression shift ever so slightly. That smile. It was growing wider, sharper. Predatory.
Stay…
Panic bubbled in Malia’s chest. She turned to run, her boots scraping against the wooden floorboards as she bolted down the hall. The whispering seemed to follow her, growing louder, more insistent. She dared not look back, not after what she saw—the mirror. The figure in the crimson room wasn’t seated anymore; she was standing behind Malia’s reflection, watching her, that same haunting grin marring her face. Only Malia was no longer looking at a stranger—it was her own face staring back at her, transformed, twisted.
The villa’s doors slammed shut just as escape seemed within reach. Darkness surged until it swallowed everything whole. Her screams reverberated in the empty corridors.
Hours later, Carmen texted again, still laughing over Malia’s gullibility to enter the haunted house. She might’ve stopped laughing if she knew her friend’s desperate texts—half-typed messages with no sender—started to appear on all her devices before the morning sun rose.
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