The rain drummed relentlessly against the windows of the Blackwood Manor, a decaying estate Elias had inherited from an uncle he never knew. The locals avoided the place, claiming the house "breathed," but Elias, a man of science, dismissed it as superstition.
On his third night, the silence of the house was broken by a rhythmic scratching coming from inside the bedroom walls. At first, he blamed rats. But as he followed the sound, it morphed into a dry, raspy whisper. It wasn't just noise; it was his name. "Elias... help us..."
He grabbed a hammer and tore away a section of the rotting wallpaper. Behind it, he didn't find pipes or insulation. Instead, he found a layer of old, yellowed photographs plastered directly onto the brick. Every single person in the photos had their eyes meticulously scratched out.
As he stared, a cold realization hit him: the eyes in the photos were beginning to bleed. He turned to run, but the door didn't lead to the hallway anymore. It opened into a mirror image of the room he was in, where a version of himself stood with his back turned, holding a hammer, staring at a wall.
The whisper returned, louder this time, right behind his ear: "We needed a fresh pair." Elias felt a cold hand grip his shoulder, and when he looked into the nearby mirror, his own reflection had no eyes—just two dark, hollow voids.