Hey Pandas, Let’s Hear Your Go At A Short Horror Story

The door squeaked. The curtains blew as the cold breeze entered the open windows. Outside the house could barely be seen from the road; abandoned, dark, alone. Not a car, neighbor or person in sight, except for the tall dark shadow of a man. As he walked through the lonely house, void of any light, he heard the door squeak behind him. “Hello?” he asked of the night air. No answer. As he turned back towards the hall, he heard a whisper of his name float past his ears. “Daaaviiiid” “Who’s there?” He whispered back. No one could be seen , he could barely see his own hand in front of his face if it wasn’t for the sliver of moonlight. But he could feel a presence. And it felt like it was in the same room. He was being watched. But from where? What corner? What dark, cold crevice of this lonely house? “I’m here.” David felt a sharp stab in his side. As he looked down, he saw the blood pooling around the sharp knife. Then he remembered. He was alone after all. He was dead in this house that he once lived in so many years ago. The house where he had died, where he still lay as a corpse. The house where he had never been found. In the dark, not a neighbor or another car in sight. Abandoned, dark, alone.

The Mirror

There have been many tests that prove that staring at yourself in a mirror will cause hallucinations.

I don’t know who put me here. I don’t know how long it’s been. Am I even real?
Time is irrelevant. Sanity is irrelevant.
I’m trapped inside of a cube of mirrors. The walls, ceilings, and floors are all me and only me. Or maybe, they’re just different versions of me.
I could feel myself going crazy the first I was put here. The first (day? week? month? minute?) was pure panic, just me banging on the walls. But I’ve gotten used to it. I’m not so hungry any more. I’m never thirsty.
I sleep when I sleep. There is no night and day.

I know not to look at my reflection too often. That’s what makes me go off. My mind will start to trick me- things will blur, things will move, and things will talk back to me.
My closed eyelids are the only calm left in me.

What if I am dead, and I am trapped here for the rest of my life? Who knows how long I’ve been rotting here, wondering.
I try to remember who I used to be. Was I as lonely as I am now? Was I as bored as I am now? Was I as empty as I am now?

There is nothing to me being here. There is only me. There’s no way for it to end. And I don’t necessarily want to end, but if that’s the only way to escape, then so be it. I’m hanging by a thread that I want to cut so bad, but I know I could hang on. Maybe I will escape.

This is based off of my depression. It feels like being trapped where the only person who really cares about you is yourself, which is slowly losing faith. There is only your mind and how much you overthink. But there is always a tiny shard of hope- a hope of overcoming. And if you’re reading this and struggling right now… try to hold on a little longer?