Late one December night, a woman named Clara moved into a house she had inherited from her estranged aunt. The house, an old Victorian mansion, stood at the edge of a quiet, snow-covered town. Its creaky floors and dimly lit hallways whispered of secrets long forgotten. Clara was excited to start fresh, but something about the house felt... wrong.
While unpacking her belongings, she noticed the attic door in the hallway ceiling was slightly ajar. Curiosity pulled her toward it. Dragging a chair beneath the door, she climbed up and pushed it open. The smell of mildew and dust greeted her. The attic was cluttered with antique furniture, broken mirrors, and piles of old books.
As Clara shuffled through the debris, she found an ornate, hand-carved mirror propped against the wall. Its gilded frame was tarnished, but the glass was perfectly clear. Oddly clear. She reached out to wipe away a streak of dust but froze. Her reflection was wrong.
In the mirror, Clara's reflection stood still, staring back at her, though she wasn't moving. Slowly, the reflection raised its hand and pointed behind her.
Clara spun around, heart racing, but the attic was empty. She turned back to the mirror, but her reflection was gone. The glass now reflected only the room, barren and silent.
Terrified, Clara scrambled back down the ladder, slamming the attic door shut behind her. She tried to convince herself it was her imagination, but sleep did not come easy that night.
At 3:00 a.m., Clara woke to the sound of creaking floorboards. She sat up in bed, straining to listen. The sound grew louder, closer, until it stopped just outside her bedroom door.
Her breath caught as the door creaked open, revealing nothing but darkness beyond. Yet, she could feel it—something was there. She grabbed her phone, shining its weak flashlight toward the doorway. The light flickered, then died.
And then she saw it: a shadowy figure standing in the doorway, featureless yet unmistakably human. It tilted its head, as if studying her. Clara couldn't move.
The figure stepped closer, its shape growing darker, denser. It whispered her name, the voice like dry leaves scraping against stone.
The last thing Clara saw before the shadow engulfed her was the faint reflection of the ornate mirror in her phone screen, now leaning against her bedroom wall. The figure in the mirror smiled.
Clara was never seen again, but neighbors sometimes report seeing a faint light in the attic window, flickering as if someone—or something—was pacing back and forth.