The Shattered Mirror: A House on 5th Street - Part One

Please note that this is a fictional story based on personal events it is not meant to be factual or accurate. It is only for entertainment purposes. 

A House on 5th Street 

I never liked the old house my mom inherited from my granduncle. It was small, old, and creepy, with creaking floors, dusty rooms, and shadows that clung to the corners like unwelcome guests. It whispered of tragedy and secrets, its history staining the air like the stains on its peeling wallpaper.

The first few nights of settling in, I was fine until a nightmare clawed its way into my sleep. I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, when a bone-chilling presence coiled around me. I whirled around, heart hammering, but the shower was empty. The only sound was my own shaky breath.

I woke with a gasp, three deep scratches burning on my arm, mirroring the phantom nails that had ripped through my flesh in the dream. My mom dismissed it as something else, but I knew better. Something was in that house, something cold and malevolent, and it had chosen me as its plaything.

Driven by a morbid curiosity, I scoured the internet, unearthing whispers of demonic entities and signs of their presence. My blood ran cold. Three scratches, they said, a mockery of the Holy Trinity. It was targeting me, mocking me.

That night, in the locked bathroom, I challenged it. My voice, choked with fear, as I asked questions, not out loud, but in my mind in the silence. Three echoing knocks, the only reply. It ignored my questions, amused by my fear, mocking me with its silence.

That was the first time I heard the knocking. But it was not the last.

A scream choked in my throat as the bathroom door shuddered under unseen blows. A menacing voice, guttural and cold, whispered through the wood, "You can run, but you can't hide. You belong to me."


Panic tore through me, a maelstrom of chills and dread. The world bled red, vision blurring, body convulsing under an unseen grip. With a primal scream, I clawed at the door, forcing it open, and stumbled out, the entity's icy laughter echoing in my wake.

I don't know what waits for me in the shadows, but I won't give in. I won't let it win.

I grabbed the nearest weapon, a kitchen knife, and clenched it in my hand. I was not going to let this thing take me without a fight.

I was the only one who heard the knocking. My mom and my sister did not believe me. They thought I was joking, lying, or crazy. They did not hear the knocking, or see the scratches that appeared on my arm right before my eyes, or feel the electric shocks that jolted me awake from my nightmares.
They did not believe me, until one day, my sister and I were in the kitchen, and she heard the knocking too.

It was a sunny and warm afternoon. We were making lunch, when we heard three knocks on the floor, right under our feet. We looked at each other, and I saw her eyes widen, dart around, and fill with tears. She finally heard what I had been hearing for months.

We stopped what we were doing, and listened carefully. We waited for a few seconds. I stepped out of the kitchen. The knocking stopped. I stepped back into the kitchen. The knocking started again. Three knocks on the floor, louder and faster than before. I stepped out of the kitchen. The knocking stopped. I repeated this a few times, and the knocking followed the same pattern.

To be continued