Cracks in the Mirror

Who is She?

A week later, when I am deemed healthy enough to move my hand without ripping the stitches, I am thankfully discharged from the hospital of horrors.

When I sit down in my room again, I allow myself to glance at the mirror.

As I walk towards it, I notice another line on the mirror's smooth surface.

Another crack in the mirror.

Okay, this is really creepy and it's starting to freak me the fuck out.

I walk towards the mirror and run my finger along the new crack.

One crack for every accident.

Is this even possible? Or is this just a bad nightmare?

As I step back to examine the mirror, I notice a hand print near the bottom of the mirror. I try to rub it off, but to no avail.

And that's when I realize the horrifying truth- the hand print wasn't on the mirror, it's inside the mirror.

Startled, I step back with this realization.

I back away slowly from the mirror and run quickly down the stairs.

I sit on the living room couch with my head in my hands, rocking back and forth as I control the urge to scream.

I should probably have tell about this to someone, but I decide against it.

It would only earn me a trip to the psychiatric ward.

I pace around the living room for what seems like hours, and jump at the slightest of sounds (A/N: listen to HALSЭY).

What do you even do next in a situation like this?

I'm still wondering about what to do next, when a piece of wood from the floorboards sticks into my foot. I stumble back with pain and hit my head on the television set, slumping onto the floor.

But I'm not unconscious.

Not yet.

I hear mom's muffled scream as I hit the floor.

I hear Connor and dad running towards me.

My eyes are still open somehow, and I see three blurry faces [ |-/ ] blocking my view.

But I'm not looking at them.

I'm looking at something behind them.

I am petrified.

I don't think I could have said anything even if I wanted to.

Because behind them is something- no, someone- floating towards me, almost touching the ceiling, but not quite. She is coal black and her dark hair covers her face. She floats slowly towards me, not noticing my family blocking her way.

Who is she?

The lamp in the living room, which was shining bright a second ago, starts flickering.

My ears start ringing.

My eyes flit towards the ceiling, which suddenly has dark lines running along the blue paint, rotting my house.

My family doesn't seem to notice her.

My mother is crying, my father is calling 911 and my brother is trying to shake me awake.

But my eyes are not trained on them.

When the dark figure is just an inch from me, she raises her head.

She looks like a decomposed corpse, someone who rose from the grave just to take someone back with her, with hollow eye sockets and thin lips curving into a dark grimace.

She reaches forward and I feel ice cold fingers grabbing my throat.

My eyes widen and I start choking. The figure that was there a moment ago disappears. My throat is blocked. I can't breathe.

Can't.

Breathe.

My eyes close slowly, just as I hear the loud crack that I am now accustomed to.