Following the chilling success of their first collection, Lady Eckland, Glenn Riley, and new collaborator, Bella Darkwood return to guide you through the shadowy corridors of fear with their second compendium, *Whispers In The Dark 2*. These master...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The overgrown forest path led me to the wrought iron gates, as intricate as lace yet fortified by time. I pushed through clinging vines and rust to an expanse of dead gardens and fountains that must have been glorious once. At the end towered the Manor of Mirrors.
My friends saw it as a lark—a spooky dare on a birthday night made more thrilling by copious drinks. But I saw it as the story I’d been waiting for. Six months writing puff pieces at the Herald, I was desperate for an urban legend to call my own.
The front double doors creaked open to a vast entry hall, lined with sheet-covered furniture and dominated by a split staircase sweeping to a landing. Dust sparkled in beams of moonlight while our flashlight beams danced over peeling wallpaper and across dusty mirrors lining the walls. Mirrors that reflected only shadows, no matter where we shone our lights.
“Well, this was anticlimactic,” muttered Troy. “I’m not seeing anything cursed.”
“Just because it doesn’t match your haunted house fantasies doesn’t mean there’s no story here,” I said.
I already itched to inspect every corner, my reporter’s curiosity in overdrive. If I couldn’t find a supernatural thriller for my editor, there had to be secrets still buried that would unravel why such a magnificent manor was left abandoned.
The group wandered off to explore while I started peeling back sheets. But apart from generations of dust and cobwebs, the lower floors proved unremarkable—just endless empty rooms filled with covered furniture.
Eventually I climbed the left side of the split staircase. Doors lined the landing, all closed except the last which hung open. Inside was a bedroom as ornately decayed as the rest of the house. More notable, one entire wall was covered with mirrors reflecting the room from every angle.
I studied my fractured image, multiplied from different perspectives. I looked like I belonged, just another Victorian spirit haunting the halls.
Laughter echoed from downstairs before voices called to me. “Where is she?” “This place goes on forever!”
Heading to the door, I felt a chill caress my arms. I glanced back at the mirrors in time to see the reflections ripple.
All froze into images not reflecting the room itself. Instead a direct view down the second floor hall, as if I gazed through a window. Empty at first—then a figure in Victorian dress hurried past. A young woman, her face filled with fear. She clutched an infant to her breast, pausing at a nursery door to look back before entering.
Mesmerized, I watched the glass, waiting for her to walk from that room to the one I occupied. Yet she did not emerge again. The mirror refused to resume normal reflections.
I waved my arm before it, snapping my fingers, then peering closely at the antique glass. All remained still and clear.
From below, my friends again whooped loudly amidst crashes and banging doors. “Phoebe, we found the wine cellar! Want to have this party downstairs?”
