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The Vanishing Village Shaina Tranquilino September 4, 2024

The villagers of Oakhaven had long learned to live with the curse that haunted their quiet existence. Every 50 years, on the same night, the entire village would disappear from the map, swallowed by an eerie mist that rolled in without warning. The village would reappear the next morning, untouched, its people unharmed but with memories hazy and fragmented, as if they had slipped into a collective dream. It was a mystery that had defied explanation for centuries. Sandra Drake, an investigative journalist with a reputation for uncovering the darkest secrets, had heard rumors of Oakhaven's strange phenomenon. The stories were dismissed by most as folklore, but Sandra sensed there was truth buried beneath the layers of myth. She decided to visit the village as the fateful night approached, determined to unravel the mystery that had confounded the world for so long.

Oakhaven was nestled deep within the Whispering Woods, a forest so dense and ancient that it seemed to breathe with the weight of forgotten history. The villagers welcomed Sandra cautiously, their eyes betraying a deep-seated fear. They spoke little of the curse, as if discussing it might summon its wrath sooner. But Sandra was relentless. She pressed on, speaking to the elders, combing through the village archives, and piecing together fragments of the past.

As the night of the 50th year drew closer, the atmosphere in Oakhaven grew tense. The villagers began to withdraw, their usual routines disrupted by an unspoken dread. Sandra, however, felt she was close to a breakthrough. She had discovered an old journal, hidden in the attic of the village’s oldest house, belonging to a woman named Eliza Grey. The journal told a tale of love, betrayal, and a curse born from unimaginable grief.

In the late 1700s, Eliza Grey had been the daughter of the village's headman, betrothed to a man named Thomas Hale. The two were deeply in love, but their happiness was not to last. A traveling stranger arrived in Oakhaven, a man of wealth and influence, who became infatuated with Eliza. He sought her hand in marriage, but she refused, her heart already belonging to Thomas. The stranger, consumed by jealousy and rage, cursed the village in a fit of vengeful fury.

"On the night when the mist descends, let this village be lost to time," the stranger had proclaimed, his voice echoing with unnatural power. "And may the soul of she who rejected me be forever bound to the mist, neither alive nor dead, until a love pure as hers sets her free."

That night, Eliza vanished, and the village was swallowed by the mist for the first time. When it reappeared the next morning, Thomas was found dead, his body cold and lifeless in the center of the village square. Eliza’s body was never found. The villagers mourned, but they quickly realized that the curse was real. Every 50 years, they would be taken by the mist, and each time, Eliza's ghostly figure could be seen wandering the village, searching for the love she had lost.

Sandra's heart ached as she read the final entry in Eliza’s journal. The woman had been trapped in the mist for over two centuries, her soul bound to the village, waiting for the curse to be broken.

On the night the mist was due to return, Sandra waited in the village square, determined to confront the specter of Eliza Grey. As midnight approached, the air grew thick, and a dense fog began to swirl around Oakhaven. The villagers retreated to their homes, but Sandra stood firm, her pulse quickening.

The mist enveloped the village, and soon, the world around Sandra faded into a ghostly, silent expanse. From the fog emerged a figure, pale and ethereal, with eyes full of sorrow. It was Eliza, her form barely discernible in the shifting mist.

"Who are you?" Sandra whispered, though she knew the answer.

"I am bound by a curse," Eliza replied, her voice like a breeze through autumn leaves. "My soul cannot rest until the curse is broken."

Sandra felt a deep connection to the tragic figure before her. She reached out, her hand trembling. "How can I help you?"

Eliza’s eyes softened. "Find the one who cursed us. Only by confronting him can the curse be undone."

Sandra nodded, determination hardening her resolve. She had learned from the journal that the stranger had not died but had disappeared after casting the curse, his fate unknown. If he were still out there, perhaps his power lingered in the mist, keeping Eliza trapped in her eternal limbo.

As the night wore on, Sandra wandered through the mist-shrouded village, feeling the weight of the curse pressing down on her. She searched for any sign, any clue, that might lead her to the source of the curse. Hours passed, and just as despair began to settle in, she heard a voice, low and venomous, whispering her name.

Turning, Sandra saw a shadowy figure materialize from the mist. It was the stranger, unchanged by the centuries, his eyes cold and cruel.

"You dare challenge me?" he sneered. "This village is mine, and so is the soul of Eliza Grey."

Sandra's heart pounded, but she stood her ground. "You’ve kept her trapped for centuries. It’s time to let her go."

The stranger laughed, a hollow sound that echoed through the mist. "And what makes you think you can break my curse?"

Sandra clenched her fists, recalling the words of the journal. "Love as pure as hers can set her free," she said, her voice steady. "You cursed her out of spite, but your power is not absolute. It’s tied to the village, to her pain. If I can bring her peace, your curse will end."

The stranger's expression faltered for a moment, but then he sneered again. "You are but a mortal. What can you possibly do?"

Sandra stepped forward, her voice filled with resolve. "I may be mortal, but love transcends even death. I will not let you continue this torment."

As she spoke, the mist began to swirl around her, responding to her determination. The ghostly form of Eliza appeared beside her, a look of hope in her eyes. The stranger, sensing his power waning, snarled and lunged at Sandra, but the mist surged between them, repelling him.

Sandra reached out to Eliza, her hand closing around the ghost’s cold, insubstantial fingers. "Eliza," she whispered, "you are loved, even now. Let go of the pain. Be free."

Eliza’s eyes welled with tears, and she nodded. The mist around them began to glow with a soft, golden light. The stranger let out a furious cry as his form disintegrated, consumed by the very curse he had cast. The mist lifted, the village returning to the world of the living.

As dawn broke, Sandra found herself standing alone in the village square. The mist had vanished, and with it, the curse that had plagued Oakhaven for centuries. The villagers emerged from their homes, blinking in the morning light, their memories clear for the first time in generations.

Sandra smiled, knowing that Eliza Grey had finally found peace. The village would no longer disappear into the mist, and the story of Oakhaven’s tragic curse would be remembered as a tale of love that transcended time itself.

The Disappearing Room Shaina Tranquilino September 9, 2024

Daniel Mercer stood before the grandiose facade of Ashgrove Manor, his newly purchased estate. The towering spires and weathered stone walls exuded an air of mystery and history. It was an impulse buy, something that felt right the moment he saw it in a listing online. The price was suspiciously low, but Daniel, newly retired and seeking adventure, found the idea of owning a mansion irresistible.

The real estate agent, a thin man with an unsteady smile, had been eager to hand over the keys. “There’s just one thing, Mr. Mercer,” he had mentioned almost as an afterthought. “This house has a… peculiarity. A room that appears and disappears at will. No one knows when or where it’ll show up next.”

Daniel had laughed at what he assumed was an eccentric marketing ploy, but as he stood in the cavernous entrance hall, he wondered if there was some truth to it. The house was silent, the only sound the ticking of an ancient grandfather clock. Sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, casting long shadows across the polished wooden floors.

For the first few days, Daniel explored his new home. It was filled with forgotten rooms, each one more intriguing than the last. He found a library lined with books whose spines were cracked with age, a ballroom with a chandelier that sparkled with forgotten grandeur, and bedrooms filled with antique furniture. But there was no sign of the disappearing room.

On the fifth night, as a storm raged outside, Daniel was awakened by a low rumble. The house seemed to groan in response to the wind. As he climbed out of bed, he noticed a faint light seeping from beneath a door at the end of the hallway. A door that hadn’t been there before.

Heart pounding, Daniel approached the door. The handle was cold under his fingers, and as he turned it, the door swung open soundlessly. Inside was a small, dimly lit room that looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades. The walls were lined with old photographs, and in the center of the room stood a table with a single item on it: an old leather-bound journal.

Daniel stepped inside, feeling an inexplicable chill. He picked up the journal and opened it, revealing pages filled with neat handwriting. The entries were dated from the 1920s and told the story of a man named Edward Ashgrove, the original owner of the mansion.

Edward’s journal detailed his obsession with discovering the secret of the house. He wrote of a room that would appear without warning, containing clues to a mystery that had haunted his family for generations. The journal entries became increasingly frantic as Edward described following the room from one end of the house to the other, piecing together cryptic messages left within.

The final entry was particularly chilling: “The room holds the truth, but it comes with a price. I fear what I must do to uncover it.”

Daniel set the journal down, unease creeping into his thoughts. He looked around the room and noticed a photograph on the wall that hadn’t been there moments before. It was a portrait of Edward Ashgrove, standing with a woman and a young child. The woman’s face had been scratched out, but the child’s was clear. It was a boy, no more than six years old, with a striking resemblance to Daniel.

A sudden dizziness overtook him, and when he blinked, the room was gone. He was back in his bedroom, the journal clutched tightly in his hands. The storm outside had intensified, lightning flashing through the windows. Shaken, Daniel realized that the room wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. It was real, and it was playing with him.

Over the next few days, the room appeared and disappeared at random, each time in a different location. Each appearance brought with it new clues—fragments of letters, faded photographs, and strange symbols etched into the walls. The puzzle pieces began to fit together, revealing a dark secret about the Ashgrove family.

Daniel discovered that Edward Ashgrove had been trying to save his family from a curse, one that condemned the firstborn of every generation to a tragic fate. The curse was tied to the house, to the very room that now tormented Daniel. Edward had believed that solving the mystery of the room would break the curse, but he had disappeared before he could finish his work.

The final piece of the puzzle came one night when the room appeared at the very top of the house, in the attic. This time, the room was bare except for a single sheet of paper on the floor. Daniel picked it up and read the words scrawled hastily across it:

“To break the curse, the firstborn must make a choice: Sacrifice the room or themselves.”

Daniel’s blood ran cold. The resemblance between him and the boy in the photograph was no coincidence. He was a descendant of the Ashgroves, the firstborn of his generation. The curse had followed him to the mansion, and now the room was demanding his choice.

With a heavy heart, Daniel knew what he had to do. He couldn’t allow the curse to continue, to let another generation suffer as Edward had. He returned to the room one last time, the journal in hand. As he stepped inside, he felt a sense of finality.

The room seemed to pulse with anticipation as Daniel placed the journal on the table. He whispered a prayer and made his decision.

The next morning, Ashgrove Manor was empty. The neighbors would later claim that they had seen a flash of light from the attic that night, but no one dared investigate. Daniel Mercer was never seen again, and the mansion was left to decay.

Years later, when the estate was auctioned off, the new owner discovered a small, dusty room hidden in the attic. Inside was a single photograph of a man standing before the house, a man who looked strikingly familiar. Beside it was a leather-bound journal, its pages blank, as if waiting for the next chapter of the story to be written.

The Mirror of Truth Shaina Tranquilino September 29, 2024

In the quiet town of Regina Ridge, nothing ever changed. It was a place of routines, polite greetings, and secrets buried under layers of civility. Life was predictable, a clockwork of day-to-day activities. That was, until the mirror arrived.

It appeared one foggy morning in the window of Old Morton's Antiques, an unremarkable shop tucked between the grocer and the post office. The mirror was elegant, standing six feet tall with an intricately carved frame of dark mahogany. Its surface shimmered in an oddly captivating way, as though the glass held more than reflections.

Mrs. Jessica Fields, the postmaster’s wife, was the first to notice it. As she passed the shop on her way to the market, her eyes were drawn to the mirror. Something about it unsettled her, but she couldn't quite place what. She stepped inside the store, the bell above the door chiming softly.

Old Morton shuffled out from behind the counter. His bushy eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Morning, Mrs. Fields. Something catch your eye?" he asked, his voice raspy with age.

Jessica pointed to the mirror. "Where did you get that?"

Morton shrugged. "Came with a batch of old furniture from an estate sale. Strange thing though... couldn't find a price on it. Figure it's one of those one-of-a-kind pieces. Beautiful, isn't it?"

Beautiful wasn't the word Jessica would use. The mirror had an eerie quality to it, as though it were watching her. But curiosity got the better of her. She approached it, drawn to its strange allure, and stood before the gleaming surface.

For a moment, her reflection was ordinary—gray hair pinned up in a neat bun, lines of age creasing her face. But then the image flickered. The reflection shifted. Her face remained the same, but her eyes—her eyes were sharp and cruel, burning with malice. The smile that curled on the lips of the woman in the mirror wasn’t hers at all.

Jessica gasped, stumbling back. The image reverted to normal, her own startled expression staring back at her. Morton didn’t seem to notice anything unusual.

"You alright, Mrs. Fields?"

"I... I’m fine," she stammered, backing away from the mirror. "I’ll be going now."

She hurried out of the shop, her heart racing. As she walked down the street, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had looked out at her from the other side of the glass. Something that wasn’t her at all.

Over the next few days, word spread about the mirror. Curious townsfolk stopped by the antique shop to gaze at it. Some saw nothing unusual, just their own reflections staring back at them. But others—those with deeper secrets—witnessed something far more unsettling.

Harold Thompson, the local banker, was next. As he stood before the mirror, he saw not his own stout, dignified figure, but a man hunched with greed, counting money with trembling, possessive hands. His reflection grinned maniacally as gold coins spilled from its pockets. Harold blinked, and the vision was gone, but he left the shop in a cold sweat.

Then came young Claire Turner, sweet and kind, adored by everyone in town. But when she stood before the mirror, she saw a twisted version of herself—eyes wild with envy, her hands clutching at jewels and gowns, her reflection sneering with bitterness. Claire fled from the shop, her heart heavy with a truth she never wanted to admit.

One by one, the townsfolk came, and the mirror showed them not who they were, but who they truly were. Desires long hidden, fears buried deep, and the dark corners of their hearts that they’d kept secret even from themselves.

It wasn’t long before the mirror became infamous, whispered about in hushed tones. People avoided Old Morton’s shop, crossing the street to avoid even a glimpse of the cursed thing. Regina Ridge, once peaceful and predictable, had become a town of suspicion and unease. People started looking at each other differently—after all, who could trust someone when they didn’t even trust themselves?

It was Pastor James who finally decided to confront the mirror. A man of faith and conviction, he refused to believe that a simple object could hold such power over the town. One evening, after sunset, he entered Old Morton's shop. The bell rang softly as he stepped inside, the dim light casting long shadows across the floor.

Morton looked up from his chair, his face drawn and tired. The mirror had taken its toll on him too. He nodded at the pastor but said nothing.

James approached the mirror, standing tall before it. For a moment, all he saw was his own reflection—calm, composed, and righteous. But then, just like with the others, the image shifted.

His reflection sneered back at him, eyes burning with hypocrisy. Behind the mask of piety, Pastor James saw his darkest desires—the pride he took in his power over the townsfolk, the secret disdain he held for their weakness. The reflection laughed, mocking him.

"No," James whispered, shaking his head. "This isn’t me."

But the mirror showed no mercy. His reflection’s hands reached out, as if to pull him into the glass, to merge the man he pretended to be with the man he truly was.

In a panic, James grabbed the nearest object—a heavy candlestick—and smashed the mirror with all his strength. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces, the reflection disappearing with a final, mocking grin.

Breathing heavily, he stepped back, staring at the broken shards scattered across the floor. It was over. The mirror was destroyed.

But as the townspeople gathered outside, drawn by the sound of breaking glass, they saw something strange. Each shard of the broken mirror still reflected their faces—distorted, twisted, revealing those same hidden truths.

The mirror was gone, but its curse lingered.

Regina Ridge would never be the same again.