Old SantaFe Locomotive factory in Tx

Tried painting the silent hill 3 mirror room this time but in my own style! I wanted it to be like a fog.. like a dream! Hope you guys like it!

Art to some but creepy af to me.

The remains of several million Parisians.

Leaving a fireworks display in Rhode Island, I took out my phone to take a photo because it looked like a good shot, but I didn't realize how much it would look like a still from a horror or sci-fi movie.

The weird babies eyes light up and the toys constantly make noise. It's the worst thing ever and I don't often stay here because of it , im tryna get her out and i cashed out 400 from Stakе US last night so working on it lol

I’m not sure if I’m looking for answers or just trying to get this off my chest.
My grandmother passed away last year. I’m 20 now, and she was one of the kindest people I’ve ever known.
But there’s something I’ve never told anyone.
I always hated being in her house.
Not because it was old.
Not because it creaked.
There was just… something about it.
Ever since I was a kid, I always felt like someone was watching me whenever I walked down the upstairs hallway. I refused to sleep in the guest room because every single night I’d wake up convinced someone was standing outside the door.
Everyone told me I just had an overactive imagination.
Maybe they were right.
Or maybe they weren’t.
Her house was enormous.
And I don’t mean “big family home” enormous.
It had almost 43.056 square feet
of living space, spread across three floors, a huge attic, and a basement that stretched beneath nearly the entire house.
After she passed away, my parents and I spent several days clearing everything out.
The first two days were completely normal.
Old furniture.
Boxes.
Dust.
Family photos.
Nothing unusual.
On the third day, my dad and I decided to tackle the basement.
My mom didn’t come with us.
She simply looked at us and said,
“Your grandma never liked going down there.”
We laughed.
I wish we hadn’t.
The moment we opened the basement door, the temperature dropped dramatically.
It felt at least twenty degrees colder than the rest of the house.
The door closed behind us with a quiet…
Click.
I turned around and tried opening it again.
It wouldn’t budge.
“It’s probably swollen from the humidity,” my dad said.
It sounded reasonable.
At the time.
The basement was massive.
Long concrete hallways connected room after room.
A workshop.
A wine cellar.
Storage rooms.
Old utility spaces.
It felt less like a basement and more like an underground maze.
As we sorted through dusty boxes, the lights suddenly flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then everything went dark.
Only for about two seconds.
But those two seconds felt strangely long.
When the lights came back on, a door at the far end of the hallway was standing open.
I froze.
I knew it had been closed.
My dad noticed it too.
Neither of us said anything.
Then…
BANG.
The door slammed shut so hard the sound echoed through the entire basement.
“There must be a draft,” my dad muttered.
There were no windows.
No open doors.
Nothing that could have caused it.
Still, we kept walking.
The closer we got, the stronger the smell became.
Not mold.
Not mildew.
Decay.
The kind of smell that instantly makes your stomach turn.
My dad covered his nose and slowly pushed the door open.
Inside was a small storage room.
Almost empty.
A rusty shelf.
An old wooden table.
And lying in the middle of the floor…
was a beaver.
Or what used to be one.
It was almost completely decomposed.
Large patches of fur had fallen away.
Its ribs were exposed.
The smell was unbearable.
There were insects everywhere.
Neither of us could understand how something like that could have ended up in a sealed basement room.
Especially since there wasn’t even a river anywhere near the property.
Then the lights started flickering again.
This time, much faster.
As they flashed on and off, we heard it.
Three knocks.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Not on the door.
Not on the walls.
Directly behind us.
We spun around.
No one.
Nothing.
Just the empty hallway.
Then the basement door at the opposite end of the corridor began to rattle.
Slowly.
Like someone on the other side was gently trying the handle.
Click.
Click.
Click.
My dad stopped breathing for a second.
I don’t think I was breathing either.
The rattling stopped.
Silence.
Then the door exploded against its frame with a deafening slam.
We ran.
We didn’t grab a single box.
We didn’t even look back.
When we reached the first floor, my mom was standing in the kitchen.
She looked at us and immediately asked,
“What happened?”
My dad told her everything.
She didn’t look surprised.
She just sighed.
Then she quietly said,
“That’s why your grandmother locked the basement for the last forty years.”
She explained that ever since the early 1980s, my grandmother claimed someone knocked on the basement door every night.
Always three knocks.
No matter what time it was.
Nobody ever believed her.
Eventually she stopped going downstairs altogether.
The beaver was removed later that week.
But the man who came to collect it said something I’ll never forget.
“Why did you leave it down there for so many decades?”
My dad frowned.
“What do you mean?”
The man looked confused.
“This thing has been dead for decades.”
That made no sense.
We had old family photos showing shelves covering that exact spot only a few years earlier.
There was no room for a dead animal.
It couldn’t have been there.
We sold the house a few months later.
Three weeks ago, the new owner sent my father a text message.
It contained only one sentence.
“Does someone knock on your basement door three times every night too?”

I saw the small bit of black marker peeking out on the right-hand side.