The Mirror in the Attic

When Claire inherited her aunt’s old house, she knew it came with secrets. The townspeople whispered that her aunt had been strange, reclusive, and obsessed with collecting mirrors. But when Claire moved in, she didn’t think much of it. The mirrors were just dusty antiques, silent witnesses to her aunt’s lonely life.

While exploring the house one evening, she found a narrow door at the end of the hall, half-hidden by a dusty curtain. It led to a narrow staircase winding up to the attic, where the air was thick and smelled of stale wood. At the far end of the attic, covered in a faded cloth, was a large, ornate mirror.

Curious, Claire pulled off the cover, revealing a gilded frame, intricate with carvings of twisted vines and faces. The glass itself was perfectly clear, almost too clear, as if it were watching her.

She tilted her head, studying her own reflection. But something felt off. It wasn’t her exact likeness staring back. There was something darker, a shadow in her eyes that didn’t belong.

Shivering, she laughed nervously. “You’ve been watching too many horror movies, Claire,” she whispered to herself.

That night, she dreamt of the mirror. In her dream, her reflection was alive, moving with a mind of its own. It pressed its hands against the glass, as if trying to reach through.

The next night, the attic called to her again. She found herself drawn to the mirror, compelled by a strange urge to stand before it. She touched the glass, feeling its cold surface under her fingertips, and watched as her reflection moved… but not quite in sync with her.

“Hello?” she whispered, feeling foolish.

Her reflection’s lips curled into a slow, eerie smile, though she hadn’t smiled at all.

She yanked her hand back, her heart pounding. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered, but as she turned to leave, she heard a faint voice.

“Claire…”

She froze, chills running down her spine. She looked back at the mirror, and her reflection was grinning widely, eyes dark and hollow.

“Don’t go,” it whispered, pressing its palms against the glass, its movements too quick, too eager. “Let me out.”

Claire stumbled back, shaking her head. “This can’t be happening,” she said, her voice trembling. “You’re just a reflection!”

But her reflection’s grin grew wider, stretching unnaturally across her face. “Are you sure?”

The lights flickered, and for a moment, the attic plunged into darkness. When the lights steadied, Claire saw her reflection pounding on the other side of the glass, the sound muffled, desperate.

“Let me out!” it hissed, eyes wild. “I want to be free!”

Panicking, Claire stumbled back toward the stairs, but before she could reach them, she heard a sound behind her—a shattering crack.

She turned, horrified, to see her reflection’s hand emerging from a crack in the mirror’s surface, reaching out, fingers twisted and clawing.

Claire ran, stumbling down the stairs, slamming the attic door behind her. She bolted it, listening to the sound of glass shattering and that voice—her voice—screaming from above.

By morning, the house was silent, but Claire couldn’t bring herself to go back up to the attic. She left the house that day, leaving it to the shadows and that broken, grinning reflection, forever trapped in the mirror, waiting for someone else to come close enough to set it free.