Chapter 1
Clara pressed her shoulder into the stubborn attic door until the wood gave way with a groan. A puff of stale air rolled out, heavy with dust and something faintly sour, like old fabric left damp too long. She lifted the flashlight higher, sweeping its beam across low rafters and stacks of forgotten boxes.
The realtor had warned her the place would need clearing. The last owner had vanished without a word, leaving the house in disarray. Most of the rooms were just untidy, but the attic felt different—untouched, abandoned mid-breath. Cobwebs hung thick as curtains, and the silence pressed in, broken only by the occasional creak of timber.
Clara tugged a box aside, coughing at the cloud it released. She told herself she was just making the space livable, but the air here carried a kind of weight, as though someone had been waiting too long. Then, in the far corner, her light caught on glass. Tall, narrow, leaning against the wall: a mirror framed in wood so dark it almost looked wet. Carvings swirled up its edges, curling into faces she couldn’t quite make out.
She stepped closer, dust crunching underfoot, and raised the flashlight. The attic around her swam in gloom, but the mirror gleamed clear and sharp. Too sharp. Her reflection stood exactly as it should—except the attic door behind her was already swinging shut.
I spun around. The door was still, unmoving. When I turned back, the reflection was normal again.
