The day was quite normal, much like the rest,

Until I got mail from an address out west.

I opened the letter with mild unease,

And what I read had caused me to freeze.

“Dear Sir, or Ma’am. I hope this finds you well.

Before we continue, I have a story to tell.

This house was erected in nineteen twenty-three,

The year it was built, it was given me.

I don’t know who built it, and I don’t know why.

I didn’t ask questions, not wanting to pry.

I accepted the gift, no purchase required.

Within the estate, my life slowly expired.

I must leave it behind and to someone new.

And so, I’ve decided. That person is you.

The terms are quite simple. Take them in stride:

To claim it, you must just once, sleep inside.

Only one night, and then in the morning,

It will be yours. This is your warning.

But when your time comes, when you’re feeble and old,

You must pass it along. A new life to hold.

The door is unlocked. You may walk right in.

Then, my dear, the real fun will begin.”

The letter was written by hand, neat and fine,

I paused on the couch, thinking “This can’t be mine.”

The handwriting struck me. It had me thrown.

The trace of a hand I had once known.

The next day I packed, determined to leave.

The house stood alone, no neighbors to grieve.

No driveway, just stone, the air ancient and cold.

The house three stories, with a tower trimmed gold.

I pressed the latch down and stepped through the door,

The floorboards cried out, then fell silent once more.

Inside, the walnut mouldings, carved and ornate.

Every corner perfect, every line straight.

I wandered the halls, each silent as tombs,

Shadows stirred faintly in the candlelit rooms.

The basement doorframe caught my gaze,

Numbers engraved from earlier days.

Each notch a scar from a silent hand,

A record of lives I’d soon understand.

A breath at my neck, though no one was near,

A movement, a whisper that I barely could hear.

I spun around fast, heart pounding with fear,

Relieved to see just my reflection appear.

The house seemed to tighten, its shadows to creep,

Like it had slumbered a centuries sleep.

The walls weren’t quite right, angles rearranged,

Corners leaned inward, like all had changed.

I reached for a handle, brass cold and worn,

Expecting the parlor, familiar and warm.

The door swung wide to a chamber of stone,

A place I was certain I never had known.

I shut it in haste and tried another door,

But this one revealed the bedroom once more.

Each room rearranged, as if I’d never been here,

The kitchen looped back to a place more unclear.

No map could be trusted, no path seemed true,

The house was deciding what rooms I’d Walk through.

And each time I opened, I swear I could hear

A laugh, distorted, but so eerily near.

The wallpaper swelled, then flattened again,

A rhythm that matched the lungs of men.

The ceiling bowed downward, the floor seemed to rise,

The house I believe, wore a sinister disguise.

I ran to the bathroom, splashing water on my face,

Then looked in the mirror, and my heart gave race.

The reflection I saw had the same hair, nose, and chin,

But the me in the glass wore a cruel, evil grin.

I dove through the doorway, overcome with fright,

Into a room so uncomfortably bright.

Pots and pans, a fridge, and a stove,

The kitchen, it seemed, is where I had dove.

A table stood lonely in the middle of the room,

A single chair waiting, filled me with doom.

Upon it lay a letter, ink dark on the page,

As if it were waiting for me to engage.

I sat and I read, my mind floating in space,

I’ve been here before. I remember this place.

Hair on my neck stood up on end,

As reality around me started to bend.

The envelope was familiar, dated for tomorrow,

The letter felt heavy, an unbearable sorrow.

It was the same one I had got in the mail,

Exact to the letter; my face had gone pale.

The writing was mine, the words I had known,

My own hand had claimed this house as its own.

I tried to make sense of it. The house and the deal,

How could any of this be? How could this be real?

I looked out the window; the world was pitch black,

My reflection still smiling, sat looking back.

“What do you want?” I cried out in terror,

But the reflection stayed still. A motionless mirror.

Sweat rolled down my brow and fell to the table,

I tried to stand up, but my legs were unable.

The reflection then spoke. It had stolen my voice.

It told me I now must make an impossible choice:

“Stay here in these walls until the next letter’s sent,

And I will step out to take the life you’ve lent.

Or walk through the door and leave this place behind,

But be wiped from the earth, from each memory and mind.

No birth, no death, no memory, no name,

Like smoke in the wind, you’ll vanish the same.”

I gripped the paper tightly, my hands cold and weak,

The house held its breath, waiting for me to speak.

I thought of the faces, the places I knew,

Each now belonged to the mirrored version of “you.”

I set the letter down; my choice was made clear,

I’d remain in this hell, year after year.

The reflection rippled; the window grew thin,

Out stepped my double, still wearing that grin.

It nodded in silence, no words to be said,

Then walked to the doorway and vanished ahead.

The candlelight flickered as the walls seemed to sigh,

The house had accepted this fate, and now so had I.

I looked towards the table; ink waiting to flow,

A fresh sheet of paper, and pen laid just so.

The words formed themselves, like a hand not my own,

In time, another poor soul would inherit this home.