Reflected in Shards

Which is worse: the monster being real, or realizing it’s you?

The sky over Mirageton never truly cleared. Even on its brightest days, a thin pall of clouds clung to it, muting the light, dulling the edges of things. The town was known for its fog: thick, natural mist that rolled in from the surrounding wetlands and refused to leave, curling through narrow streets and settling in alleys like something that had chosen to stay. The older residents said you got used to it. Visitors said it felt like living inside a dream that never quite woke.

Tonight, the fog lay low and heavy, pressing against the asphalt, blurring the outlines of the old houses leaning too close together. Windows dark. Doors shut tight.

Lia Calder quickened her pace.

Her boots struck the wet pavement in sharp, lonely clicks that echoed too loudly in the empty street. The cold seeped through the soles, crept up her legs. She tucked her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed ahead. These neighborhoods were always deserted at night, but tonight felt worse, hollow, as if the town itself had stepped back and left her alone in its place.

She passed a row of storefronts, their signs unlit, their shutters drawn, closed for the day. The fog softened their details, turned them into vague shapes that watched without seeing.

She told herself not to rush. Rushing made you notice things. Rushing made your imagination run ahead of you.

Still, when she passed the glass door of a small corner shop, her steps faltered.

The store was closed, the interior pitch-black. Inside, silence pressed against the glass. In the streetlight, the door had become a perfect black mirror, reflecting the empty road, the fog, and the lone figure walking past.

Lia didn’t look at it directly. She never liked looking at her reflection at night. She kept her gaze forward and was just about to turn the corner...

A chill crawled up her spine.

She stopped.

It wasn’t a sound. It wasn’t a movement. Just a sensation, sharp and sudden, like a hand pressed between her shoulder blades.

She didn’t glance back. Not yet.

Everything looked normal. The streetlight hummed softly. The fog drifted. The glass door reflected the street.

But she saw it. Just for a split second.

Her reflection wasn’t moving.

Her mirrored self stared at her. The face was hers, same dark hair pulled back too tightly, same coat, same pale skin, but the eyes were wrong. Too still. Too focused. Not blinking.

Lia’s throat went dry.

She stood frozen, heart hammering. She swallowed. Forced a breath.

I’m tired, she told herself. That’s all.

She’d worked late. She hadn’t slept well. Mirageton had a way of getting under your skin, especially if you let old stories creep in.

She took one step forward, and hesitated.

Remembered something she’d heard.

An urban legend, passed around in whispers and half-laughs. Something kids dared each other to try, something adults rolled their eyes at.

If you stared closely into a mirror at exactly midnight, you wouldn’t see your own reflection.

You’d see a devil at your shoulder.

Or your own death.

Or the world of ghosts.

Lia scoffed under her breath. Cheap horror. Childish nonsense. The kind of thing people invented to make a foggy town feel more interesting than it was.

She checked her watch despite herself.

12:00 a.m.

A strained laugh escaped her, sharp and humorless. Seriously?

She should go home. Turn the corner. Forget the whole thing.

Her breath came a little faster anyway.

What if?

The thought lodged in her mind, unwelcome and stubborn. Just take a look. She could laugh at herself then. There was nothing to be afraid of.

She turned back toward the door.

Each step felt heavier than the last. The closer she got, the more ridiculous it felt: standing alone on an empty street, spooking herself over a rumor.

Just look, she told herself. A normal look. Nothing stupid.

She stopped in front of the glass and lifted her gaze.

A young woman stared back at her. Tense, a little pale, eyes too alert. Lia recognized herself. She let out a shaky breath.

“Idiot,” she muttered.

She was about to step away when a light flickered inside the store.

Just for an instant. Dim.

But unmistakable.

Her breath caught.

The darkness behind the glass shifted. The reflection dissolved.

Something else took its place.

Not a devil.

Not a ghost.

A man.

Pressed against the glass from the inside, his face twisted in terror, mouth open in a silent scream. His eyes wide, blown, fixed on her with desperate intensity. Blood smeared the glass beneath his hands, streaking downward, pooling at the base, then crept under the frame.

He wasn’t moving.

Frozen in the act of fighting for his life.

Dead.

Lia staggered back, crashing onto the pavement, shock flaring through her more than pain. As the angle shifted, the image in the glass grew sharper, clearer, as if the door had decided to reveal everything.

Her stomach lurched.

The town’s silence shattered with her scream — high, raw, uncontrollable — cutting through the fog like a shard.

___

Ian Hale woke with a gasp, heart racing, sheets twisted around his legs.

That dream again.

It had been haunting him for weeks now, returning in fragments that never quite fit together. Faces surfaced in his mind. Strangers, all of them, distorted with fear, mouths open in silent pleas. They reached for him, fingers clawing at the air, as if something were dragging them away.

Hands.

From that angle... were they his?

There was a girl, too. Her face blurred, but not her hatred. He felt it as she plunged a blade into his chest, the pain so real it ripped him apart.

Ian pressed his palms to his eyes, breathing hard until the images loosened their grip. His head throbbed, a dull, familiar ache. Another migraine. Lately they came more often, lingering longer, like something worn and tired that refused to leave.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, shoulders slumped.

He had just turned eighteen. A high school senior. Supposed to be worrying about exams, graduation, college applications, about the future. Everyone said this was the age when things began.

Instead, he felt like something was ending.

It won’t be forever, he told himself. He was legally an adult now. He would leave. Leave this house. Leave this town.

Mirageton.

The name itself felt like a cruel joke.

A faint smile tugged at his lips as his gaze flickered to the place beneath the floor where his secret waited, his thoughts sharpened. Soon. Just a little longer. Until it was done.

His dark brown eyes, so dark they barely caught the pale dawn light, revealed nothing as he glanced around his room. The old townhouse creaked softly, settling in on itself. The walls were thin. The air smelled faintly of stale alcohol and dust.

Ordinary.

Too ordinary for the turbulence that churned beneath his skin.

___

Detective Harris arrived at the scene to find it already swarming.

Yellow tape cordoned off the storefront, fluttering slightly in the cold air. Uniforms stood shoulder to shoulder, keeping back a growing crowd of onlookers who craned their necks, murmuring. Cameras flashed. Forensic techs moved with practiced efficiency.

Harris exhaled slowly.

“Who was it?” he asked, approaching one of his officers.

“Adrian Cole. Forty-six,” the officer replied. “Owner of the store. Closed yesterday. The rolling shutter was fully down until it came up late last night. Ms. Lia Calder was walking by and spotted the body through the glass.”

“No signs of forced entry?” Harris asked.

“None. Front door locked from the inside. Rear door too. No sign of robbery.”

Harris grimaced. “Another one,” he muttered. “Three.”

“And this time,” the officer added quietly, “it’s a locked room.”

Harris rubbed a hand over his face. Mirageton was already making headlines. At this rate, the department would be drowning in it.

He stepped closer to the glass door.

Blood streaked the inside, dried in long, uneven lines. Harris stared at them, a tightness settling in his chest.

Of all places... why the glass?

The door stood under bright floodlights now, transparent and harmless, offering no answers.

___

“It’s getting dangerous,” Harris said the next morning, his voice firm as he poured himself a mug of coffee, stronger than usual. “I don’t like it.”

Elaine looked up from her breakfast, fork suspended midair. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” he replied. “How about you go back to your mother’s for a while?”

She stared at him, incredulous. “I’m only here for three months. Even if you two are divorced and already sick of me, could you at least pretend to put up with it a little longer?”

Her smile was light. Her tone wasn’t.

Harris stopped and sat across from her, his expression softening. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I know,” Elaine said, poking at her eggs. “But Mom’s place isn’t an option. That’s why I came here.”

Silence stretched between them.

“There’s danger everywhere,” she continued quietly. “I’m almost eighteen. You can’t protect me forever. And I don’t want to live my life running.”

Harris watched her, recognizing the stubborn set of her jaw. He’d lost this argument before it started.

“And my dad’s the lead detective in Homicide,” she added, her gray‑green eyes glinting with curiosity. “Tell me, are the murders connected?”

“Elaine,” Harris warned.

She leaned forward slightly, voice dropping out of instinct more than necessity. “Is there a serial killer?”

“Enough,” he said. There was no heat in it, only tired concern. “Don’t ask me about my cases.”

He studied her more closely, suspicious. “I did think it was strange you wanted to live with me in a town like this. You seem awfully interested in my work.”

“I do,” she admitted with a small shrug. Seeing his expression tighten, she added quickly, “But I’m not doing anything reckless. Promise. Not until I enroll at the police academy.”

Harris blinked. “You... what?”

“I haven’t told you yet?” She winced apologetically. “It’s not a whim. I’ve thought it through. And I heard smaller departments are understaffed.” Her eyes lit up. “I could learn from you here. Wouldn’t that be great?”

Harris stared at her, glass-like eyes that always caught more than most people noticed. A city girl who disliked crowds, noise, and shallow drama, who preferred silence, patterns, unanswered questions.

Observant. Sharp. Unyielding.

His daughter.

“Fine,” he said at last, sighing in defeat. “Do what you want. But be careful. A judo brown belt only helps so much.”

“Of course.” She flashed him a quick grin and rose. “Thanks, Dad. I’m heading to school.”

He watched her go, light, unburdened, and wondered — quietly, uneasily — whether this town would let her stay that way.

Whether it deserved her at all.

___

Across town, in a neighborhood where the houses leaned closer and the streets smelled faintly of rust and damp concrete, another teenager stood in his room, staring at a mirror he’d covered with a blanket.

Daylight filtered weakly through the narrow window facing a wall. He hesitated, razor in hand, heart pounding.

Do it.

He slammed his palm against the blanket, as if the impact might steady him. Instead, his breathing grew shallow.

Come on, he urged himself.

He pulled the fabric aside.

His reflection stared back: dark circles under wild eyes, stubble along his jaw, hair too long.

He exhaled shakily.

Exhausted. Alert. Almost hostile.

But it was just him.

He let out a brittle chuckle. The fact he’d even hesitated was ridiculous. Proof, maybe, that something was wrong with him.

He shaved quickly. Too quickly. The razor nicked his skin. He flinched, reaching for the ointment on the shelf.

And froze.

Had the reflection just smiled?

His pulse spiked. Looked again.

Nothing. Just his own face.

And yet, the shiver crawled through him, the same one that had made him cover the mirror weeks ago, convinced his mind was turning against him.

He covered the mirror again, sliding down the wall, hollow.

It hadn’t stopped.

The knocking came hard, sharp, demanding.

Ian stood and opened the door.

His father stood there, eyes bloodshot, already angry.

“Thought you died in there,” he snarled. “You got paid yet? Hand it over.”

Ian stared at him. His father. The only other Hale in the house. His self-appointed creditor.

“What’s with that look?” the man snapped, grabbing Ian by the collar. His eyes were dull, his breath stinking of years of drink. “You want a beating first thing in the morning?”

“N-no,” Ian muttered, glancing away. “I’m still looking for a new part-time job...”

“Still?” his father roared, jerking him closer. “You useless piece of shit. If Adrian Cole hadn’t dropped dead last night, I’d have shoved you right back into that store. Paid like crap, but it was better than nothing.”

Ian’s breath caught. “Mr. Cole... what?”

“Dead,” his father snapped, shoving him away. “Murdered. Half the damn street’s talking about it. What are you standing there for? Get out!”

Ian left the house with his backpack slung loosely over one shoulder, eyes shadowed under the bleak daylight, thoughts splintering.

Adrian Cole. His former boss. Dead.

His father’s shout followed him down the street.

“If you don’t bring in money today, you’d better be ready tonight!”

Back in the room, Hale stood breathing hard, temper simmering. The covered mirror caught his eye as he turned to leave.

“What the hell is this?” he muttered, yanking the blanket away.

“That little shit.” He scoffed under his breath. “Some kind of rebellion?”

He slammed the door behind him.

The room fell silent.

The mirror remained exposed.

At its center, a faint smear appeared, as if someone had breathed onto the glass from the other side and traced a line with their finger.

A smile.

It lingered.

Then faded...