When my grandmother died, she left me her old house, a creaking two-story colonial nestled on the edge of a small, forgotten town. I hadn't been there since I was a child, but the memories of summers spent running through its wide hallways and playing in the overgrown garden were vivid in my mind. The house had always felt too big for just one person, especially for her. After my grandfather passed away years ago, she had lived alone, her world growing smaller and smaller within the vast walls of that home.
The town was over three hours away from where I lived now, and despite my busy schedule, I felt compelled to go. There was no rush—no one was clamoring to sell the place or tear it down—but something pulled at me. Maybe it was the guilt of not visiting her more often in her last years. Maybe it was curiosity. Either way, one rainy weekend in October, I packed up my car and made the drive.
When I arrived, the house stood as it always had—weathered but still regal, its tall windows staring out over the rolling hills like tired eyes. The porch creaked as I climbed the steps, the wood softened by decades of rain and neglect. I unlocked the door, and the familiar scent of dust and old wood hit me immediately. It was as if the house had been frozen in time, untouched since the last time I'd been here.
I spent the day wandering from room to room, remembering bits of my childhood. The musty furniture, the faded wallpaper, the way the light filtered through the lace curtains in the sitting room. It was all the same. But there was something about the silence that unnerved me, as if the house was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
By late afternoon, I had made my way to the attic. As a child, the attic had been a place of wonder—a treasure trove of forgotten things. But it had also frightened me, with its shadows and cobwebs and the way the old floorboards creaked beneath my feet. I hadn't been up there in years.
I found the attic door at the end of a narrow hallway, just where I remembered it. The handle was cold to the touch, and the door groaned in protest as I pulled it open. The stairs leading up were steep, and the air grew colder the higher I climbed. I reached the top and flicked on the single bulb that hung from the ceiling, casting the attic in a dim, yellow light.
The attic was exactly as I remembered it—filled with old furniture, boxes of forgotten trinkets, and the smell of time gone by. But there was something I didn't remember. At the far end of the room, propped up against the wall, was a large, antique mirror.
It was taller than me, its frame intricately carved with swirling patterns of vines and flowers. The glass was dark, tarnished with age, but still clear enough to reflect the faint light from the bulb overhead. I didn't recall ever seeing it before, and something about it felt out of place, as if it hadn't always been there.
Curious, I approached it. The closer I got, the more I felt a strange unease settle over me. The air around the mirror seemed colder, heavier. I could see my reflection—pale in the dim light, my face half-shadowed—but there was something… off. The reflection wasn't wrong, exactly, but there was an unsettling feeling about it, like a part of me wasn't entirely my own.
I shook my head and stepped back, telling myself it was just my imagination. The attic was filled with old things, things that carried memories and stories, and it was easy to let those objects stir up the mind. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that the mirror didn't belong.
I decided to leave the attic for the time being and spend the night downstairs. The house was cold and drafty, but after getting a fire going in the old fireplace, it became more bearable. As I sat in the living room, sipping tea and flipping through one of my grandmother's old books, I found my thoughts drifting back to the mirror. Why had I never noticed it before? Had it always been there, lurking in the shadows, waiting to be found?
The night grew darker, and eventually, exhaustion began to creep over me. I headed to the bedroom where I used to sleep as a child, pulling the thick quilt up to my chin as I lay in bed, listening to the wind howling outside. The house creaked and groaned, the way old houses do, and I felt myself slowly drifting off.
I'm not sure what woke me, but it was well past midnight when I opened my eyes. The room was pitch-black, the fire downstairs long since gone out, and the wind outside had picked up, rattling the windows in their frames.
I lay there for a moment, listening, when I heard it—a faint creaking sound, like footsteps on the floorboards above me.
The attic.
I told myself it was just the house settling, but the sound was rhythmic, deliberate. As if someone—or something—was moving around upstairs. My heart began to race, but I forced myself to sit up, my breath coming in shallow bursts. I grabbed the flashlight from the nightstand and climbed out of bed, creeping toward the door as quietly as I could.
The house was eerily still as I made my way down the hallway, the beam of the flashlight cutting through the darkness. The attic door loomed ahead, slightly ajar, though I was certain I had closed it when I came down earlier.
The creaking had stopped, but the silence was worse. I hesitated at the foot of the stairs, my hand trembling as I reached for the handle.
Get a grip, it's just an old house, I told myself. But my gut was screaming otherwise.
Summoning whatever courage I had left, I slowly ascended the stairs. Each step creaked beneath my weight, the sound amplified in the oppressive quiet. When I reached the top, the attic stretched before me, shrouded in shadows.
And there, at the far end, was the mirror.
The flashlight's beam bounced off the glass, but instead of reflecting the attic around it, the mirror seemed to swallow the light, its surface darker than before. I approached it cautiously, my heart pounding in my chest.
My reflection stared back at me, but this time, something was wrong. My face—no, her face—was twisted into a cruel smile, lips stretching far too wide, eyes glinting with malice.
I froze. My reflection didn't.
She took a step forward, her movements slow and deliberate, her eyes locked onto mine. I backed away, but she continued to move closer, her smile growing wider, more grotesque, until it was a hideous grin that split her face from ear to ear.
I wanted to run, to turn and flee down the stairs, but my legs wouldn't obey. I was rooted to the spot, paralyzed by fear as the figure in the mirror reached out, her fingers long and claw-like, pressing against the glass.
The surface of the mirror rippled like water, and her hand passed through.
I stumbled back, my flashlight clattering to the floor as the cold, skeletal fingers brushed against my skin. Her grin widened, and she stepped out of the mirror, her body no longer confined by the glass.
She stood before me now, a twisted version of myself, her eyes dark and empty, her lips curling into that same terrifying smile.
"You shouldn't have come here," she whispered, her voice a cold hiss. "This is my home now."
Her hand shot out, grabbing my wrist with a grip like iron. Her touch was freezing, and pain shot through my arm as she pulled me closer, her face inches from mine.
"Leave," she growled, her breath icy against my skin. "Or I'll take your place."
I yanked my arm free, stumbling back toward the stairs. Without looking back, I ran, my heart hammering in my chest. I could feel her watching me, her presence pressing in on me as I raced down the stairs, nearly tripping in my haste to get out of the attic.
I didn't stop until I was outside, standing in the cold rain, gasping for breath. The house loomed behind me, dark and silent, but I could still feel her—the thing in the mirror—watching from the attic window.
I never went back inside. I couldn't. The house, the memories, the mirror—it was all tainted now.
I sold the house a few weeks later, leaving the mirror exactly where I found it. I never told the buyers about what had happened, but sometimes, late at night, I wonder.
I wonder if they've seen her yet.
Or if she's already taken their place.