"Margaret," I said, "the police is here." I told her and the figure disappeared, and light came back.
She nodded, tears glinting in her eyes. "Really?" She and I more than shocked because we thought that the killer playing us. I hurried and checked the Lan cable, and it looks like somebody fixed it.
And so, we huddled by the fire, two souls seeking solace.
The wailing sirens grew louder, piercing the night. Blue and red lights danced across the walls of my cottage as the police cars pulled up. Margaret and I stumbled toward the door, our breaths shallow, our hearts racing.
Two officers stepped out—one tall and stern, the other younger, eyes wide with curiosity. They wore uniforms that seemed to absorb the darkness, their badges glinting under the moon.
"Ma'am," the stern officer said, "we received a distress call. What seems to be the problem?"
Margaret's voice trembled. "Distorted mirrors, a masked figure, and—"
"—and blood" I added, my own fear echoing hers.
The officers exchanged glances. "Mirrors and blood?" the younger one asked. "Like, broken mirrors?"
"No," I said, leading them inside. "Distorted. As if they reflect something beyond and tap was pouring down the blood water."
They followed us through the dimly lit hallway. The broken mirror still hung there, mocking us. But the bloodstains—the evidence of horror—were absent. The floorboards creaked under their boots, and the air smelled of damp wood and old moss.
"Where did you see this masked figure?" the stern officer asked.
I pointed outside the window. "There. At the Ravenwood manor when we were passing by—"
"—it creeped us since then." Margaret finished.
The officers exchanged another glance. "Ladies," the younger one said, "we've been through this before. Old houses, dark nights—they play tricks on the mind."
"But the tap," I insisted. "Someone opened it deliberately and it was oozing out blood."
They examined the bathroom, flashlight beams dancing over the tiles. "No signs of forced entry," the stern officer said. "No blood, no struggle."
"And the mirror?" Margaret asked pointing towards the broken mirror.
The younger officer chuckled. "Broken mirrors can warp reflections. It's physics, not ghosts."
"But the raven who hit the window shield—" I began.
"—could be a coincidence," the stern officer interrupted. "Or a normal bird hit."
Margaret's face fell. "But we felt—"
"—fear," the younger officer finished. "Fear can make shadows dance, create monsters in the dark."
They assured us there was nothing wrong, no masked figure, no raven with ominous messages. Just our minds playing tricks.
As they left, I glanced at the broken mirror. Had I imagined it all? The blood, the distorted reflections? Or was Ravenwood's haunting more insidious than they knew? My mind churned with suspicion as the officers left. Their dismissive tone grated against our instincts—the way they brushed off the distorted mirrors, the masked figure, and the raven's ominous hit. Had they encountered Ravenwood's haunting before? Or were they part of the town's conspiracy to silence its secrets?
I glanced at Margaret's shoulders slumped as the officers departed. Her eyes held a mix of frustration and lingering fear. She had hoped for validation, for someone to acknowledge the inexplicable events that had unfolded in our cottage. But their dismissal left her feeling vulnerable, as if the shadows still clung to our walls, mocking our sanity.
Their dismissive words echoing in my mind. Perhaps they were right—we were overthinking it. But my gaze shifted to the fixed LAN cable, its neatly repaired ends. Someone had been here, meddling with our reality. The lights, too—they flickered back to life as if mocking our fears. I couldn't shake the feeling that these events were orchestrated, deliberate.
And then there was the tap—its slow, rhythmic dripping. Margaret and I stepped outside, the night air cool against our skin. The water tank stood in the moonlight, a silent witness to our unraveling sanity. I peered inside, half-expecting to find crimson stains, the evidence of something unspeakable. Margaret was holding the torchlight for me.
But the water was clear, untouched. No signs of blood, no murky residue. Just the quiet hum of the pump, the stars above, and the weight of unanswered questions. Had I imagined it all? The broken mirror, the masked figure, and all these creepy things?