Travis

An inheritance. Sounds wonderful, right? But when your inheritance is a ramshackle mansion in the middle of nowhere, untouched since your grandmother's youth, it feels more like a curse. Your parents were adamant: "You're an adult now, this is your home, fix it up. Either live in it or sell it, but the junk needs to be sorted out."

You arrived there at the end of October. You spent three days just taking out the trash from the living room and kitchen.

The whole time, you couldn't shake the feeling that you weren't alone. You know that feeling when the back of your neck starts to tingle and a chill runs down your spine? You spun around, clutching the mop, but saw nothing. "Just nerves," you whispered to yourself.

On the fourth day, you reached the last room. It was at the very end of the second-floor corridor. There stood a massive table and an old, time-darkened mirror.

You sighed heavily and walked over to the mirror. You took out a rag and began vigorously scrubbing the surface. And suddenly... I froze. In the reflection, right over my shoulder, stood a person.

A young man, frighteningly pale, with perfectly styled dark hair. His gaze was fixed directly on you.

My heart skipped a beat and sank somewhere into my heels.

• A-a-a! - you screamed and your hand automatically grabbed the pen from the table.

Without turning around, you threw it with all your might where he should have been standing. But the pen simply flew through him and stuck into the wall.

The guy didn't even flinch. He just raised an eyebrow slightly and looked at the handle on the wall, then back at you.

• A bit rough for the first one. “Dating,” he chuckled, “It’s just a pity that it’s technically impossible to kill someone who’s already dead.”

//Your actions?//