It is a beautiful autumn night. The wind is gentle, not too strong — just enough to carry the scent of fallen leaves. It smells like autumn itself.
You feel the wind in your hair, and your mind begins to drift away — to the things you want to do, the things you haven’t done yet. So many, and yet so little time. Time flies, and still, you walk.

Your legs move on their own, as if they know the path better than you do. Where will they take you tonight?
The streets are familiar, the houses known — you wander through them aimlessly, your thoughts soaring elsewhere: your life, your problems, everything blurring into the night air.

But then —
You stop.

There’s a house you don’t recognize.
Have you ever been on this street before? You’re not sure.
The house stands there, strangely beautiful, yet deserted. Why does no one live here? Why does no one care for it? Even the garden, wild and overgrown, looks… intriguing.

You’ve always had courage, but entering a deserted building at night — that’s something else. Trespassing, yes… but also tempting. After all, it doesn’t seem like anyone is here. No lights. No signs of life.

Should you go in?

The iron gate is cold under your fingers. The wild plants sway under the autumn wind, brushing against the rusted metal. The gate is open — almost inviting.
Just a few pictures from inside the garden, you think. Just a peek.

Your heart starts to race. It’s crazy, but you step in.
You hope no one — especially the police — finds you here.

The garden is strangely beautiful, full of forgotten autumn colors. The house itself rises before you, grand yet crumbling. A few steps lead to the door.
Should you…?
You whisper softly, “Hello?” No answer.

The door isn’t locked.

Inside, dust lies thick on everything, yet it feels as though the place was once full of life.
Who lived here? Why did they leave?

You step into what seems to be a bedroom. Dusty, but oddly peaceful. No sign of anyone — not even a squatter. On the table, there are objects… small, personal things. A mirror catches your eye. You raise your phone’s light, trying to see your reflection.

You feel like a thief in the night.

And for a moment, you’re sure the reflection isn’t just yours. Something else flickers there — a shadow, a face, a breath that isn’t yours.
You shake your head. Paranoia, you tell yourself. Just the stories you’ve heard.

There’s a necklace — delicate, beautiful. You want to take it, but that would make you a thief, not just a trespasser. Maybe a few photos instead, to prove you were here.

You glance again at the mirror on the wall.
Damn… you feel it again — someone watching.
A cold wind sweeps through. Brrr. Enough. You should go.

But something draws you deeper.

Another door. You push it open — a library, filled with books. Old, bound in strange leather. The titles whisper in dust and age. You choose one.
It’s a book of spells. Poems — forgotten verses of power and loss.

A chill runs down your spine. The air grows colder.
You’re not alone. You can feel it.

Then — a sound. The floorboards creak.
Footsteps.
Closer.

You hide under a desk, heart pounding like thunder. The footsteps stop. Silence. Then again — creaking, breathing, closer still.
The door opens slowly.

You freeze.

A young woman steps in, dressed in clothes from another time. Her face is pale, streaked with tears. She is crying.

So… the house isn’t empty after all.

Then a man’s voice — shouting. Harsh. Angry.
You peek — he’s yelling at her. She sobs harder. A sudden noise — a bang — then silence.

You wait, barely breathing. Thirty minutes, maybe more.
No sound. No movement.

You must leave.

But when you look again, she’s there… lying in a strange position. Too still. Too quiet.
Your body trembles — you know, even before you see the blood. The knife.

She’s dead.

You reach out — your hand passes through her.
Through the air where she should be.

A ghost. You’ve been watching ghosts replay their tragedy.

A coldness spreads through you. The air shifts — a crash of wind —

And suddenly, you’re in your bed.

The window rattles, the moonlight cutting through the curtains like a blade.
Was it a dream? Just a dream of an old house and a murder long forgotten?

You’ve always dreamed strangely — but never like this.

The moon stares down, bright and watchful.

Could that house really exist?