On the outskirts of Black Hollow stood an old Victorian mansion long forgotten by time, hidden behind a grove of gnarled trees and veiled by a thick curtain of fog. The locals whispered stories about the house—of flickering lights, broken windows that mended themselves, and a mirror that never showed your reflection quite right. For decades, no one dared enter it, save for a few teenagers looking to scare each other on dares. Most returned unnerved. One never did.
Emily Harper, a determined and skeptical journalist, arrived in Black Hollow with a mission—to uncover the truth behind the mysterious Blackridge Manor. She was known for chasing tales that no one else believed in, stories that danced on the thin line between myth and madness. This was her latest pursuit. Equipped with a camera, flashlight, notebook, and unshakable curiosity, Emily approached the ivy-covered gates of the manor, heart pounding with both fear and excitement.
As Emily stepped into the main hall, her shoes echoed sharply against the dust-coated marble floor. The air was stale, thick with the scent of mildew and something she couldn’t quite place—something like burnt lavender. A massive chandelier hung precariously above, the crystals still glimmering faintly as if they remembered better days.
Then she saw it—the mirror. It stood nearly seven feet tall, framed in tarnished gold, its glass oddly pristine. It was positioned at the end of a narrow hallway. Something about it felt… alive. When Emily looked into it, her reflection stared back—but there was something wrong. Her eyes were just slightly off, too dark, too deep. Her reflection smirked when she did not.
That night, Emily reviewed her camera footage from the day. But in the frame showing the mirror, something new caught her eye—a shadowy figure standing behind her that wasn’t there when she filmed. Rewinding again and again, the figure remained. The reflection had captured something reality hadn’t.
She returned to the manor the next morning. This time, she noticed a small mark carved into the mirror’s frame—an engraving in Latin: “Speculum Mentis,” the mirror of the mind. Beneath the mirror, in the woodwork, was a loose panel. Inside, she found an old, brittle letter:
“To he who sees beyond, beware what you awaken. The mirror remembers.”
Emily's research at the town archive uncovered the disturbing history of the house. In 1893, the Blackridge family—wealthy traders from Europe—had vanished overnight. All five members, gone without a trace. The only thing found in the house was a broken mirror and trails of soot leading to nowhere.
Further digging unearthed something even stranger. The mirror was not originally part of the house. It had been shipped from Romania, part of a private collection believed to have occult properties. Its maker, one Lucien Dragoș, was excommunicated from the Romanian Church for claims of “trapping souls.”
Emily began experiencing vivid dreams. In them, she stood in front of the mirror, but her reflection was not her. It was a woman in a black veil, whispering in an ancient language, her eyes hollow and bleeding ink. The dreams grew more intense, blurring the line between reality and nightmare. Sometimes, Emily would wake to find words scribbled on her walls—Latin verses she didn’t remember writing.
She visited a local priest, Father Callahan, who listened with concern. When she showed him a photo of the mirror, he crossed himself.
“That is a gateway,” he said. “Not a mirror. It reflects not just light, but souls. Once it connects with you, it does not let go.”
Despite warnings, Emily returned to the manor. She had to know the truth. She set up recording equipment around the mirror, determined to document everything. As the clock struck midnight, the air changed. A hum began to vibrate through the walls. The mirror began to ripple like disturbed water.
Suddenly, Emily saw herself in the mirror again—but this time, her reflection was whispering, even though she wasn’t speaking. Her hand reached out, unbidden, touching the glass. It was warm.
And then she was pulled through.
Emily found herself in a distorted reflection of the manor—everything was reversed, like a mirrored world. The colors were washed out, and the air crackled with static. Ghostly figures drifted through the halls—some oblivious, some staring directly at her.
One approached. It was the veiled woman from her dreams. She spoke clearly now. “You are the first to see. The others ran. You must find the anchor.”
Emily realized then—these were the souls of the Blackridge family, and others, trapped by the mirror. Each had looked into it too long, too deep. The mirror had consumed their essence, holding them in limbo. The “anchor” was the original mirror—if shattered, the souls might be freed.
As Emily wandered the mirror realm, she found the reflection of the mirror—another, more twisted version, hanging upside-down above a pit of shadows. Guarding it was Lucien Dragoș himself, or rather, his soul bound in a rotted form, kept alive by the very curse he created.
“You see too much,” he hissed. “You think breaking it will save them? You will join them!”
A battle of wills ensued—not physical, but mental. Emily’s memories, fears, and regrets were flung at her. Visions of her mother’s death, of failures, of every guilt she had ever buried.
But Emily fought back, reciting the verses from her dreams, the Latin verses. The mirror trembled. A crack formed.
With her last ounce of strength, Emily hurled a shard of glass into the mirror’s heart. A blinding light erupted, and the mirror realm began to collapse.
She awoke on the floor of the real Blackridge Manor. The mirror was gone—reduced to silver dust and splinters. Around her, the air was lighter. Peaceful.
On her camera, which somehow still recorded, there was footage of the souls disappearing in beams of light. And in the background, the veiled woman smiled before fading into mist.
Emily left Black Hollow with more questions than answers. She published her story, though many thought it fiction. The footage helped—until it mysteriously corrupted. All that remained was a single frame: her looking into the mirror, and her reflection smiling back just a second too early.
Years passed. Emily grew older, became known for her bravery. But sometimes, she caught glimpses in glass panes—moments when her reflection blinked at the wrong time, or grinned too long. She never owned another mirror.
But in her heart, she knew: the mirror was not destroyed. Only sleeping. Waiting for the next curious soul.