The Mirror Of Lost Souls

Chapter Five:The Ritual

The mirror felt heavier in my hands than it should have. It wasn’t just the weight of the glass or the ornate frame—it was the weight of everything that had happened since it came into my life. The darkness within it seemed to grow with each passing day, and I could no longer ignore it. Grandma was in the kitchen, her back to me as she hummed an old tune while kneading dough. The warm, homey smell of bread baking should have comforted me, but the unease that clung to me was too strong.

“Grandma,” I began, my voice trembling slightly, “can I talk to you about something?”

She didn’t turn around, but her hum paused, just for a moment. “Of course, dear. What’s on your mind?” she asked, her voice as soothing as always.

I hesitated, staring at the back of her head, at the way her silver hair was pulled into a loose bun. How could I tell her about the horrors we’d been experiencing? About Cecilia’s possession, the visions, and the terror that seemed to pulse from the mirror like a living thing? I took a deep breath and forced myself to speak.

“There’s something wrong with this mirror,” I said, holding it out as if to show her the evidence of my fear. “I know it sounds crazy, but I think there’s something—an entity—inside it. Something evil.”

Grandma’s hands stilled on the dough, her shoulders tensing for a brief moment before she sighed and turned to face me. Her eyes softened when they met mine, and she smiled gently. “Lena, you’ve been under a lot of stress lately. It’s not unusual for your mind to play tricks on you when you’re overwhelmed.”

“No, Grandma, you don’t understand,” I said, the words spilling out of me faster now. “I’m not imagining this. The mirror—it’s not normal. There’s something in it, something that’s been affecting us.”

Grandma’s expression didn’t change, but there was a hint of something in her eyes—concern, maybe, or disbelief. “Lena, honey, I’ve heard stories like this before. My mother—your great-grandmother—used to tell us tales about strange things in the family. She said they were curses or spirits, but I never took them seriously. They were just stories to scare us.”

“But what if they weren’t just stories?” I insisted, feeling a surge of desperation. “What if there’s something real behind them?”

Grandma sighed again, this time more deeply, and walked over to me. She placed a flour-dusted hand on my shoulder, her touch warm but firm. “Lena, I don’t know much about the mirror’s history, and I can’t say whether those stories were true or not. But if you’re really worried, why don’t you talk to Mr. Whitlock? He’s an old friend of the family, and he knows everything there is to know about this town’s history. If anyone can help you, it’s him.”

I nodded, relief mingling with my lingering fear. “You’re right. I’ll talk to him.”

Later that afternoon, I called up the Matildas—Loraine, Anna, Cecilia, and Isabella—and we decided to visit Mr. Whitlock together. I couldn’t face this alone, and they had been with me through everything so far. We were all in this together.

The walk to Mr. Whitlock’s house felt like it took forever. The late summer sun was beginning to dip behind the trees, casting long shadows across the quiet streets. None of us spoke much on the way there; the air between us was thick with unspoken fears. I could see the tension etched into the faces of my friends—Loraine chewing her lip, Anna clutching her backpack like a lifeline, Cecilia walking in silence, and Isabella’s eyes darting nervously to every shadow.

Mr. Whitlock’s house stood at the edge of town, a rambling old structure that seemed to lean under the weight of its years. The house was surrounded by ancient trees, their branches twisted and gnarled, as if trying to reach out and ensnare anyone who dared to approach. I swallowed hard, my resolve wavering for just a moment.