The storm had already begun by the time Evelyn wandered off the main road. Rain hammered against the rooftops of the sleeping town, chasing her steps with an almost deliberate fury. She pulled her hood tighter, cursing herself for choosing the shortcut through the old quarter. Few dared to pass this way anymore—especially at night. The houses here leaned against one another like drunkards, their broken shutters slapping in the wind. Windows were dark hollows, eyes that had long since stopped blinking.
It was supposed to be a simple detour. But when lightning split the sky, she saw it: a sagging, abandoned mansion crouched at the end of the street. The kind of place people whispered about but never entered. Its iron gates hung askew, ivy strangling the fence like veins gone wild. Evelyn paused. Something tugged at her—irrational, insistent. The rain pounded harder, and she ducked inside for shelter.
The foyer smelled of mildew and ash. Dust lay thick over every surface, disturbed only by the footprints she was leaving behind. A grand staircase stretched upward, but her eyes caught on something at the far wall.
A mirror.
It stood taller than she was, its gilded frame cracked and blackened, as though scorched by fire. Webs clung to the corners, and yet the glass itself shone strangely clear, reflecting the flicker of storm light with unnatural precision. Evelyn’s breath caught. For a moment she thought she saw movement in it—a flicker that did not belong to her own reflection.
She shook her head, telling herself it was only the lightning. Still, she drew closer. The glass was cold, colder than stone. Her reflection stared back, pale, uncertain, rain dripping from the edge of her hood. Then something curious happened. The image smiled.
Evelyn had not.
Her heart lurched violently. She stumbled backward, nearly tripping on the rotting carpet. The reflection, however, remained calm, smiling faintly as if it had been waiting. Then—just as quickly—it returned to normal, mimicking her startled stance.
“Get a grip,” she whispered to herself, trying to slow her breathing. “It’s just a trick of the light.”
But the longer she stared, the more the mirror seemed to hum with presence. It wasn’t sound exactly, more like the vibration of the air in her bones. Lightning flared again, illuminating the frame. Burned into the scorched wood were faint carvings: sigils, unfamiliar runes, half-buried under the blackened surface. She reached out, tracing them with trembling fingers.
A pulse surged through her hand.
She yelped, jerking back. For an instant, the entire foyer seemed to darken. The storm outside dimmed, and the mirror glowed faintly, as though lit from within. Her reflection wavered, blurring into smoke and shadow. Then it shifted.
Someone else stood in the glass.
A girl—no older than seventeen, clad in a white dress that fluttered as though underwater. Her hair spread around her face like a halo, and her eyes—empty, depthless—locked onto Evelyn’s. The girl pressed her palm against the glass. The surface rippled like liquid.
Evelyn froze. She wanted to run, but her legs refused to obey. Her own hand twitched, drawn irresistibly toward the mirror. She stopped inches away, trembling.
The girl’s lips moved soundlessly. Then Evelyn heard it—faint, like a breath slipping directly into her ear.
“We found you.”
The words chilled her deeper than the rain ever could.
The foyer doors slammed behind her, though she had not touched them. The sound reverberated through the hollow house. Evelyn spun, heart hammering, but when she turned back, the girl was gone. Only her reflection remained, wide-eyed and terrified.
The mirror’s glow faded. The storm returned in a crash of thunder. Evelyn staggered away, trying to convince herself it hadn’t happened. Perhaps exhaustion, or the storm, or her imagination had conjured the vision. But deep down she knew better.
Her eyes darted to the frame once more. Where her fingers had traced the carvings, the dust and scorch marks were gone, exposing fresh, raw wood—as though the mirror had been waiting centuries for that single touch.
And then she saw it.
On the floor beneath the mirror lay something she swore hadn’t been there before: a small, leather-bound book, brittle with age, its cover embossed with the same strange sigils as the frame.
Evelyn knelt, hesitant. Her hand hovered over the book. The mirror reflected the gesture faithfully this time, but just before her fingers closed on the cover, she noticed something that made her blood run cold.
Her reflection was no longer reaching for the book.
It was pointing directly at her.
