Veil of Shadows

Mirror

The Mirror Incident

She had never been one to believe in superstitions, but there was something about the house that gnawed at her, especially when she was near the mirror. It wasn't just the chill that ran through her every time she walked past it, or the way it seemed to draw her in despite her better judgment—it was something else. Something deeper.

As the days passed, she found herself growing increasingly aware of the house's strange pull. The feeling—that creeping sensation that prickled at the back of her neck whenever she approached the mirror—was becoming undeniable. She had tried to ignore it, to dismiss it as just a figment of her overactive imagination, but now, standing in the bedroom, the mirror in front of her, it felt too real.

Her hand hovered just above the glass, and she swore she could feel the air shift, a slight hum beneath her fingertips. The sensation was strange—alive, almost. She wasn't sure why, but she felt drawn to it. There was a desire to touch it, to explore it further.

But as her fingers brushed the cold surface, a chill shot through her. It was sharp, startling. She gasped, pulling back instinctively, but her gaze remained locked on the reflection.

What was that?

Nothing had changed—at least, on the surface. She stared at the mirror, trying to find something, anything that felt off. But the reflection was the same. She was standing alone, just as she had been before.

Yet, there was an odd weight to the silence that settled in the room. It was as if the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. The reflection seemed to shimmer, just for a second, like a ripple across water. But when she blinked, it was gone.

Her hand shook slightly as she reached out again, this time more cautiously. The feeling in her chest was building, her heart pounding in her ears as she touched the surface once more.

This time, it didn't feel like just glass. There was something underneath it—something that wasn't supposed to be there. A coldness seeped into her palm, creeping up her wrist.

Then, just as quickly as it had come, the sensation faded.

She pulled away, her breath shallow. But the mark—the one on her hand—was still there. Darker now, more pronounced. The pain that had been gnawing at her for days flared again, more intense than before. She could almost hear it—the house, calling to her through the mirror.

It was impossible. She didn't want to believe it, but the evidence was there. That mark, the reflection that shifted so subtly—it all pointed to something else. Something that had been here long before her.

She stumbled backward, her mind racing. It has to be the mirror. The thought was a whisper in the back of her mind, but it felt right. The mirror had to hold the key.

The pull of curiosity—and fear—was undeniable now. She needed to understand. She couldn't stop herself. The house had already begun to wrap its cold fingers around her, and there was no way out.

But then, just as she was about to turn away, something changed. The reflection in the mirror didn't stay still this time. It moved.

At first, she thought it was a trick of the light. A shadow, or perhaps her eyes playing tricks on her. But no.

A figure appeared.

A woman—the woman. She saw it now. Her image flickers briefly, like a silhouette just behind her. The woman had been here.

Her breath caught. She turned, quickly—but no one was there.

The reflection, however, hadn't changed. The woman was still there, standing just behind her, watching.