Chapter One: Reflections in the Attic
I had just finished hauling the last box up the narrow stairs to my new apartment when I noticed the attic door for the first time. It was an old Victorian building, all ornate cornices and high ceilings, the kind of place that promised hidden nooks crammed with the debris of decades past. A sense of intrigue overpowered my exhaustion—I was already imagining dusty trunks of forgotten treasures.
The attic door was stubborn, resisting my initial attempts to open it with a loud creak that echoed through the empty apartment. I pushed harder, the smell of must and old wood flooding the air as the door finally gave way. The space inside was cramped and dimly lit by a single, dirt-streaked window. My eyes were drawn immediately to a large object shrouded in a dusty tarp.
Pulling back the heavy fabric revealed an ornate mirror, its frame carved with intricate designs that twisted and turned upon themselves like the roots of an ancient tree. I dragged it downstairs with a grunt, leaning it against the living room wall. It was striking, and oddly compelling.
That night, as I unpacked, I kept catching glimpses of myself in the mirror—just ordinary reflections of a man in his late twenties, slightly disheveled from the move. But as the evening wore on, something felt off. Each time I looked, my image seemed subtly altered. My heart raced the first time I truly noticed it; my reflection’s hair was grayer, its face marked with lines of age and stress that weren’t on my own face. I shook my head, blaming the odd trick of the light or my tired eyes.
Sleep was elusive that night. The apartment’s newness bore unfamiliar sounds that kept me alert. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my mind returning over and over to the mirror. Finally, curiosity—or perhaps some deeper, unnamed compulsion—drew me back to the living room.
The figure in the mirror was undeniably older now, its eyes sunk deep into their sockets, skin hanging loose from its cheeks. I recoiled, heart hammering in my chest, but my feet remained rooted to the spot. «This can’t be real,» I muttered to myself, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead.
«Who are you?» I asked the reflection, my voice a mix of fear and fascination. There was no response; the older man simply stared back at me, his expression grim and worn.
In desperation, I reached out to touch the glass, half expecting my hand to pass through some spectral form. But my fingers met cold, hard mirror. As they did, the old man in the mirror reached out too, his hand pressing against mine, perfectly aligned.
The air around me grew chill, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. «What do you want from me?» I demanded, my voice barely above a whisper.
The old man’s lips moved, and though no sound came, I could lip read the silent plea: «Help me.»
I stumbled back, breath catching in my throat. The room spun around me, and I had to lean against the wall to keep from falling. When I looked up again, the mirror showed only my own reflection, young and unmarred, looking back at me with wide, terrified eyes.
That night marked the beginning of my chilling realization: the mirror was not merely a reflection, but a window to something darker, something tied to the very essence of this apartment and its mysterious past. And I, the unwitting new tenant, had uncovered more than just an old attic relic.
Chapter Two: Whispers and Warnings
My sleep that night was shallow, fraught with nightmares that clung to the fringes of my waking thoughts. I awoke to the gray light of dawn filtering through thin curtains, my body tense, every small sound amplified in the stillness of the morning.
After a few moments of lying frozen, I forced myself up and stumbled to the kitchen, my mind still reeling from the night’s revelations. As I fumbled with the coffee maker, a sharp knock at the door jolted me. Glancing at the clock—7:03 AM—I wondered who could be visiting so early.
I opened the door to find a small, elderly woman standing in the hallway. Her hair was a wild halo of white, and her eyes were sharp, piercing blue that seemed to look right through me.
«Morning, young man. I’m Mrs. Gregor, I live just below you,» she said, her voice a crackling whisper that seemed too loud for her frail frame. «I see you found the mirror.»
I stared, taken aback by her directness. «Yes, I… How did you know about that?»
Mrs. Gregor smiled, a thin, knowing smile that didn’t reach her eyes. «That old thing has been up there for ages. Bad luck, that mirror. Brings nothing but trouble.» She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. «It belonged to Henry, the man who lived in your apartment before you. Disappeared one day, no trace. That mirror, it’s the last piece of him left.»
Chills ran down my spine. «What happened to him?» I asked, not sure I wanted the answer.
«Nobody knows,» she replied, shaking her head sadly. «Just vanished. Some say the mirror took him. Others think it shows you things… things you oughtn’t see.»
I swallowed hard, my gaze drifting towards the living room where the mirror stood ominously quiet. «Do you believe that?» I ventured.
Mrs. Gregor’s eyes darkened. «I’ve lived here long enough to believe anything’s possible,» she said. «Be careful, young man. Some doors, once opened, can never be closed.»
With that, she turned and shuffled away, leaving me staring after her, more unsettled than before.
I spent the day distracted, the mirror’s presence like a weight on my mind. As evening fell, I couldn’t keep away any longer. I stood before it, watching as my reflection seemed to flicker and then stabilize. Nothing unusual, just my own anxious face staring back.
“Show me what you showed last night,” I demanded softly, not expecting a response.
To my horror, the glass rippled like water, and the reflection shifted. It was no longer my own face looking back but that of the older man, gaunt and pale. His lips moved again, and this time, faint whispers filled the room, echoing around me as though spoken by a chorus of distant voices.
“Find the truth… Uncover the past… Help…”
I recoiled, the whispers growing louder, more urgent. “What truth? What do you want from me?” I shouted at the reflection.
As if in response, a cold wind swept through the room, the pages of a nearby open book fluttering wildly. I grabbed the book, and a photograph fell out, landing face up on the floor. It was a picture of the previous tenant, Henry, standing in this very apartment. On the back, written in shaky script, were the words: «Beware the reflections, for they devour.»
The phone rang suddenly, making me jump. I snatched it up, my heart racing. “Hello?”
A hoarse voice on the other end whispered, “They’re watching you now, just like they watched him. Leave the mirror, leave before it’s too late.”
The line went dead, leaving me in stunned silence, gripping the phone tightly. I turned back to the mirror, but it showed only my reflection now, looking pale and frightened.
I knew I couldn’t ignore Mrs. Gregor’s warnings now, nor the desperate pleas of the ghostly figure. Something dark and inexplicable was at play, and I was caught in its web. But fleeing was not an option; I needed answers, and it was clear they lay somewhere within the history of this apartment, and the mysterious, whispering mirror.
Chapter Three: Echoes in the Dark
Night descended with a stifling silence, the kind that amplifies every creak and groan of an old building. I sat in the dim light of my living room, staring at the mirror. After the day’s ominous warnings and ghostly messages, I was on edge, every shadow seeming to twitch with unseen threats.
Determined to understand the mirror’s secret, I set up a camera to record anything unusual. I didn’t have to wait long. As midnight approached, a soft, eerie glow emanated from the mirror, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. I grabbed my camera and started recording, my hands trembling slightly.
«Show me what you are hiding,» I whispered to the mirror, not knowing if I was speaking to a ghost, a curse, or simply my own frayed nerves.
The air around me chilled, and the surface of the mirror rippled again. This time, the reflection revealed a room—the same room I was in, but different. Older, the furnishings decrepit, wallpaper peeling. And there, in the reflection, stood Henry, the previous tenant. He looked real, almost solid, and was frantically writing something on a piece of paper.
Suddenly, he looked up, straight at me, his eyes wide with urgency. «Find the ledger!» he shouted, his voice distorted as if underwater. Then, he was pulled away from view by unseen hands, his fingers clawing at the air.
The mirror returned to normal, leaving me breathless and cold. «The ledger?» I murmured. I had no idea what he meant, but it was a clue, the first tangible thing I could follow.
I turned the apartment upside down searching for anything that could be the ledger Henry mentioned. Drawers, closets, under the beds—nothing. Frustrated and weary, I slumped down, my back against the wall. That’s when I noticed a small, uneven gap in the floorboards under the rug.
Heart pounding, I pried up the board with difficulty, coughing as dust filled the air. Beneath it, I found a small, leather-bound book, its cover worn and aged. «The ledger,» I breathed, hardly believing my luck.
I opened it cautiously, the pages filled with hurried, scribbled entries. Most were mundane: lists of expenses, appointments. But as I neared the end, the entries grew erratic, filled with ramblings about the mirror, its origin, and its curse.
«It shows what it wants, hides what it must,» one entry read. «The mirror must be fed, or it feeds on us.» My skin crawled as I read Henry’s frantic notes about how the mirror seemed to consume his life, his essence.
As I absorbed the horrifying implications, the air grew oppressively cold, and I felt a sudden pressure around me. Whispers filled the room, dozens of voices, overlapping, some pleading, others mocking. I clutched the ledger to my chest, my other hand reaching for the camera, when I realized it was no longer recording—its battery drained completely, though it had been fully charged.
Then, all at once, the whispers stopped. Silence slammed down like a physical weight. But the quiet was broken by a knock at the door, slow, deliberate, chilling. I hesitated, fear rooting me to the spot.
After a moment that felt like an eternity, I approached the door and opened it cautiously. No one was there. Just the empty hallway and the echo of a closing door somewhere far off. But on the doorstep lay a single, old-fashioned key, tarnished and cold.
I picked it up, turning it over in my hands. Did it belong to Henry? What lock would it open? A chill ran down my spine as I realized the answer might lie somewhere in the building, perhaps in a place the mirror wanted me to go.
The key in my pocket felt heavy as I closed the door, the ledger’s warnings echoing in my mind. Something was starting, or perhaps, something was coming to an end. Either way, I knew I had to find out what the mirror was guarding—or be consumed by it as Henry had been.
Chapter Four: The Unveiling
The weight of the old key in my pocket felt like an anchor, pulling me deeper into the mystery of the mirror and the fate of Henry, the man who had vanished before me. I knew that whatever lock the key opened would reveal the final secrets I sought—or it might seal my own doom. With each step I took through the darkened apartment building, I could feel the oppressive presence of the mirror lingering behind me, as though it watched and whispered to the shadows that flickered at the edge of my vision.
I ventured deeper into the building, my flashlight cutting a narrow path through the darkness. The basement seemed the likely place, old and often forgotten, filled with the remnants of past tenants. The air grew colder as I descended, the musty smell of damp stone mingling with something faintly metallic, like blood long since dried.
As my light swept across the walls, the beam landed on an old door, its wood warped by time, a rusted metal lock clamping it shut. Heart pounding, I slid the key into the lock, its fit snug and final. With a turn, the lock clicked open, an ominous sound in the echoing stillness.
Pushing the door open, I braced myself. Inside was a small room, more a cell than anything, with walls lined with old, yellowed newspapers and strange, arcane symbols scrawled in what looked disturbingly like blood. In the center of the room stood a pedestal, and on it, another mirror—smaller than the one in my apartment, but emanating the same malevolent aura.
As I stepped closer, the air around me thickened, whispers curling into my ears, urging me to look directly into the glass. I resisted, focusing instead on the newspapers. The headlines screamed of disappearances dating back decades, each occurring in the same apartment: mine.
With a deep breath, I raised my eyes to the mirror. Instead of my reflection, I saw a multitude of faces swirling within the glass, their expressions twisted in agony and despair. And among them, I caught a glimpse of Henry, his eyes meeting mine, filled with the same terror.
«They never left,» his voice echoed hollowly from the mirror. «Trapped, like I am, like you will be…»
I stumbled back, horror clawing at my throat. The mirror wasn’t just showing the past—it was a prison, capturing the souls of those who’d lived in my apartment, fed by their lives and fears.
In a rush of adrenaline and terror, I grabbed the nearest object—a heavy, rusted pipe—and swung at the mirror with all my strength. The glass shattered with a scream that tore through the air, a shockwave of cold blasting out as the broken shards clattered to the ground.
The whispers stopped abruptly. The oppressive presence lifted like a dark fog clearing, and I gasped in a clean breath, the first in what felt like an eternity. Shaking, I looked around the tiny room, now just a room, the newspapers and symbols nothing more than sad relics of a haunted past.
As I exited the basement, the early morning light was beginning to seep into the world outside, casting away the night’s shadows. I felt a weight lift from my shoulders, a freedom from the haunting eyes of the mirror.
When I returned to my apartment, the large mirror was just a mirror once more. The reflection showed only me, a man tired but free. I knew I’d leave soon, move somewhere far from here, but first, I had a story to tell.
I documented everything, the mirror, the basement, the histories of disappearance. I posted it online, anonymously, a warning in the digital ether to anyone who might consider living in the cursed apartment.
As I packed the last of my things, ready to leave that place forever, I couldn’t shake the chill of what I had experienced. But there was a sense of completion, of a chapter ended. I had broken the cycle, freed the trapped souls, maybe even Henry’s.
As I shut the door behind me for the last time, the echo of my footsteps rang out, a final goodbye to a nightmare endured and overcome. But deep down, a small, unnerving thought lingered—was the mirror truly powerless now, or had I simply passed its curse to another, unseen reflection?
