Charlotte Burton had lived in the same place, the same town, and the same neighborhood her entire life, surrounded by rather plain people and a rather boring lifestyle. She still remembered growing up in her small and boxlike house, sheltered by her parents and teachers, cut off from the real world. Her hometown was a rather-out-of-the-way sort of place, planted right in the abandoned countryside of Wales.

       Even though still a young woman, Charlotte hadn't encountered many hardships; the most difficult thing she'd ever done was run for mayor. Charlotte had just won her third consecutive election and was now well known by the whole town. She felt like she had done a good job protecting and securing it. She even closed off that odd, creepy mansion on Lincoln Boulevard, preventing anyone from entering it. It was, perhaps, the only remotely interesting thing about the town. The mysterious mansion had been standing as long as Charlotte could remember. It had a rickety porch, dilapidated exterior, crumbling paint, and deformed gargoyle statues that flanked the doorway, making it quite the typical “haunted house.” People avoided it like the plague, and for a long while, it was left forgotten and ignored…until one day, when a light was spotted in the window of the third floor.

        It was a very odd thing, and Charlotte was baffled as to how someone could have entered the house in the first place. When she went to investigate, she found nothing, however, as she was walking out of the house she caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure standing at the far end of the corridor. She sprinted out of the mansion in such a panic she didn't stop for breath until she was back safe inside her house. Soon after Charlotte’s abrupt departure from the house, rumor spread around the town like wildfire that the eccentric Mrs. Hydsdale was back to haunt the house she had died in, a rumor that had been circulated once before.

      Mrs. Hydsdale had been the mansion’s previous inhabitant. She had moved in fearlessly, despite all of the rumors that it was haunted. About a week after she moved in, she was never seen again...and everyone assumed she had traveled elsewhere and had died. After all, she had been quite an old woman; she had looked practically ancient. Not long after her disappearance, a local tailor, who had an interest in buying the mansion, claimed he had seen her body in the basement, a statement that was quite incredulous, for how could her body still lay dead inside the house after all this time? And that was not even the tailor’s strangest claim, for he had also reported that Mrs. Hydsdale had looked perfectly fine, with only one exception. Her once clear blue eyes now had a tormented, crazed look in them, as if she had gone mad. Her eyes, he claimed, looked strangely and eerily alive. The sight of the body disturbed the tailor so much that he had reported the occurrence to the police. Everyone thought he was crazy, Charlotte included. It was codswallop in her opinion, for why would any respectable man leave a poor old woman lying dead as a doornail in her own basement? But she couldn't shake the feeling there was something rather fishy and mysterious about the whole matter.

        Now, after seeing the light in the window and the shadowy figure in the mansion, Charlotte was determined to get to the bottom of it. As mayor, it was her duty to show her beloved town there was nothing to worry about. The situation most likely had quite a simple explanation. It was probably merely the work of teenage misfits whose habit it was to wreak havoc on the town. Assuredly no Mrs. Hydsdale was back to haunt them. Who would really believe in all that nonsense?

       Charlotte’s black leather boots crunched on the cobblestone as she approached 5547 Lincoln Boulevard. An eerie fog had settled over the mansion, which made Charlotte involuntarily shiver. Her watchful, catlike green eyes scanned her surroundings, searching. For what exactly, she didn't know. It was a gloomy and dark day, and the mansion reflected that atmosphere. The frosted grass was yellow and wilted, and the predominant gray of the house blended into the sky. As she walked up to the porch, the stone gargoyles seemed to fix her with their black stares, as if daring her to go inside. Charlotte vigorously shook her head. “It’s just my mind playing tricks on me,”  she convinced herself.

       When she finally stepped inside, the thick blackness of the foyer overwhelmed her. After letting her eyes adjust, Charlotte took a couple of hesitant steps forward. The faint moaning of the wind sounded as if it were inside the house. She shuddered. As Charlotte tiptoed around, she noticed how ornate the old mansion really was. Majestic paintings, old fashioned curtains, dusty chandeliers, and flickering candles dominated almost every room. Just as she was admiring a particularly beautiful painting, she heard the creak of the floorboards and what she thought were the echo of footsteps that were most definitely not her own.
   

    She whirled around…nothing.

       Completely on edge, Charlotte made her way through the mansion. All the while, she felt a prickle on the back of her neck. It was the kind of feeling she got when she was being watched.

         Charlotte knew she was being silly, so she shrugged it off and moved on. She looked everywhere for some sort of clue, but found nothing of importance...until she reached Mrs. Hydsdale’s chambers.

          In the room, Charlotte found fragments of letters from the late Mrs. Hydsdale. She picked one up. It read:

         “My dear son Fredrick, I know you are far away in London, but I write to you in desperation, because I am afraid. In my old age, I grow paranoid and, I think, slightly crazy. I think this house is affecting me, for my fits are becoming worse. I am lonely, trapped within its walls day and night. It is maddening. Sometimes I don't remember what I have been doing. And, even worse, sometimes I blackout and lay in the spot I have fallen until I wake up again. Each day I feel worse, and less like myself. I implore you-”

     But there the letter stopped, and the ink was smeared as if the quill she was writing with had fallen from her hand. A horrible thought occurred to Charlotte...what if the tailor had been telling the truth? What if the lady had been in one of her blackouts when he found her in the basement? What if she was still...no. Spooked, Charlotte stood as though frozen for a moment, a million thoughts running through her head. It was impossible. Or was it?

        There was only one way to find out.

      Heart thumping hard, Charlotte made her way down the winding staircase to the basement, a place she had hoped she would never have to set foot in. By far the creepiest part of the house, the basement had nothing in it except for a cracked mirror and the small glow of a candle. This was the place the tailor said he had discovered the old woman. Charlotte imagined him creeping down into the basement...stumbling upon her...fleeing in horror when he peered into those haunted blue eyes...

        Realizing she was scaring herself, Charlotte forcefully expelled those thoughts from her head and summoned up all her willpower. She would prove to the town Mrs. Hydsdale was gone. It was her duty. She peered into the corner where the tailor claimed Mrs. Hydsdale lay. Her eyes widened. The body was gone.
          For the briefest of moments, Charlotte was filled with relief. But then she heard the footsteps. They were slow and heavy, faint at first, but growing steadily louder. And they were coming from the basement stairs.

      Dread filling the pit of her stomach, Charlotte realized then something was very, very wrong. The creak of the floorboards, the echoes that sounded like footsteps, the moaning of the wind that might not have been wind at all...it was all connected. She needed to get out of this house. Now. Grabbing the candle, she turned to run. Her own reflection stared back at her. Through the cracked mirror she saw her own face, pale as a ghost. And behind her… an unmistakable pair of crazed blue eyes. The eyes of a very much alive Mrs. Hydsdale.

        For she had been one step ahead all along.