The Collector
Martha had just moved into her new apartment, a small, dim place with creaky floors and peeling wallpaper. The landlord had left a dusty, ancient standing fan in the corner of the living room, warning her that the building’s air conditioning barely worked.
On her first night, Martha decided to turn on the fan. It rattled to life with a shaky hum, and as she sat on the couch, she felt an odd chill. She leaned forward to examine it, only to notice something strange on the fan blades. They weren’t just covered in dust—there were dark stains, like faint brown fingerprints. She shivered, brushing it off as rust.
The next night, she noticed something even stranger. As the fan turned, she could have sworn she saw something in the reflection of its metal blades. A face, distorted by the spinning, staring back at her. She turned the fan off and rubbed her eyes. When she looked again, it was just her own reflection, wide-eyed and tired.
But that night, Martha was awakened by a soft murmur, the sound of whispering, as if from the fan itself. Half asleep, she got out of bed and wandered into the living room. The fan was off, yet the blades were spinning slowly, as if powered by something unseen.
She stared, horrified, as faint, ghostly figures began to form in the blades’ reflection—faces filled with terror, eyes wide, mouths open as if screaming in silence. Each turn of the fan seemed to capture a new face, each one more twisted and desperate than the last.
A faint whisper floated out, chilling her to the core:
"One more…join us."
Frozen with terror, Martha backed away, but it was too late. The fan suddenly spun at a violent speed, a cold wind pulling her forward, closer and closer. Her vision blurred, and the last thing she saw was her own terrified face, merging into the fan’s endless cycle of trapped souls.
The next morning, the landlord found the apartment empty. And the fan? It stood in the corner, silent and still—except for one more faint, ghostly face reflecting off the dusty blades.
Martha had just moved into her new apartment, a small, dim place with creaky floors and peeling wallpaper. The landlord had left a dusty, ancient standing fan in the corner of the living room, warning her that the building’s air conditioning barely worked.
On her first night, Martha decided to turn on the fan. It rattled to life with a shaky hum, and as she sat on the couch, she felt an odd chill. She leaned forward to examine it, only to notice something strange on the fan blades. They weren’t just covered in dust—there were dark stains, like faint brown fingerprints. She shivered, brushing it off as rust.
The next night, she noticed something even stranger. As the fan turned, she could have sworn she saw something in the reflection of its metal blades. A face, distorted by the spinning, staring back at her. She turned the fan off and rubbed her eyes. When she looked again, it was just her own reflection, wide-eyed and tired.
But that night, Martha was awakened by a soft murmur, the sound of whispering, as if from the fan itself. Half asleep, she got out of bed and wandered into the living room. The fan was off, yet the blades were spinning slowly, as if powered by something unseen.
She stared, horrified, as faint, ghostly figures began to form in the blades’ reflection—faces filled with terror, eyes wide, mouths open as if screaming in silence. Each turn of the fan seemed to capture a new face, each one more twisted and desperate than the last.
A faint whisper floated out, chilling her to the core:
"One more…join us."
Frozen with terror, Martha backed away, but it was too late. The fan suddenly spun at a violent speed, a cold wind pulling her forward, closer and closer. Her vision blurred, and the last thing she saw was her own terrified face, merging into the fan’s endless cycle of trapped souls.
The next morning, the landlord found the apartment empty. And the fan? It stood in the corner, silent and still—except for one more faint, ghostly face reflecting off the dusty blades.
The Collector
Martha had just moved into her new apartment, a small, dim place with creaky floors and peeling wallpaper. The landlord had left a dusty, ancient standing fan in the corner of the living room, warning her that the building’s air conditioning barely worked.
On her first night, Martha decided to turn on the fan. It rattled to life with a shaky hum, and as she sat on the couch, she felt an odd chill. She leaned forward to examine it, only to notice something strange on the fan blades. They weren’t just covered in dust—there were dark stains, like faint brown fingerprints. She shivered, brushing it off as rust.
The next night, she noticed something even stranger. As the fan turned, she could have sworn she saw something in the reflection of its metal blades. A face, distorted by the spinning, staring back at her. She turned the fan off and rubbed her eyes. When she looked again, it was just her own reflection, wide-eyed and tired.
But that night, Martha was awakened by a soft murmur, the sound of whispering, as if from the fan itself. Half asleep, she got out of bed and wandered into the living room. The fan was off, yet the blades were spinning slowly, as if powered by something unseen.
She stared, horrified, as faint, ghostly figures began to form in the blades’ reflection—faces filled with terror, eyes wide, mouths open as if screaming in silence. Each turn of the fan seemed to capture a new face, each one more twisted and desperate than the last.
A faint whisper floated out, chilling her to the core:
"One more…join us."
Frozen with terror, Martha backed away, but it was too late. The fan suddenly spun at a violent speed, a cold wind pulling her forward, closer and closer. Her vision blurred, and the last thing she saw was her own terrified face, merging into the fan’s endless cycle of trapped souls.
The next morning, the landlord found the apartment empty. And the fan? It stood in the corner, silent and still—except for one more faint, ghostly face reflecting off the dusty blades.
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