A small town with nothing to do, Claire thought as she strolled through the cracked and dusty streets of Babblebrook. It was a quaint town, wedged between rolling hills and thick forests, where the air always seemed a little too still. Her grandfather, a man of few words and shadowy memories, had grown up here. She'd been tasked with sorting through the belongings he'd left behind after his recent passing.
The invitation—or rather, the summons—came in a strange envelope with no return address. The letter inside was written in jagged handwriting she didn't recognize, instructing her to come immediately. There was no explanation; there was just an address: 661 Babblebrook Street.
As she wandered toward the outskirts of town, her unease grew. Babblebrook wasn't just small; it felt abandoned. There was no sound except the crunch of gravel beneath her boots. Every building seemed frozen in time, paint peeling like dried skin from the walls. She hadn't seen a single person since she'd arrived.
The millhouse stood at the end of Hollow Bend Road, its structure leaning as though trying to retreat into the earth. Thick ivy crept up its sides, the windows black with grime. Claire hesitated before stepping inside. The door creaked open with surprising ease, revealing a dim interior that smelled of damp wood and mildew.
The house greeted her with silence. Faded photographs lined the walls, their subjects staring blankly as if they knew secrets they'd never share. A large, gilt-framed mirror hung in the entryway, its surface mottled and warped. Claire paused before it, noticing how her reflection seemed… wrong. The light caught her face at odd angles, her features twisted ever so slightly. She stepped back, unsettled.
"Just a trick of the glass," she murmured, but the sound of her own voice felt hollow.
The second floor held her grandfather's old study. His journals were stacked neatly on the desk, bound in cracked leather. Flipping through them, Claire found page after page of frantic scrawls—symbols, sketches, and words that didn't make sense.
Don't look too long.
The mirror sees you.
The reflection is waiting.
The words made her stomach churn. She glanced toward the hallway where the mirror hung below. Something about its presence now felt intrusive, almost alive.
As the hours passed, the house seemed to change. Shadows deepened unnaturally, stretching across walls where no light should have cast them. The floor creaked in rooms she wasn't in. At one point, she swore she heard faint whispering coming from the mirror downstairs.
When night fell, she tried to sleep on the faded couch in the living room, but her dreams were restless. She kept seeing her reflection, but it wasn't her. It smiled when she didn't, its eyes cold and dark.
A loud crash jolted her awake. Heart pounding, she bolted upright. The mirror in the hallway was shattered, shards of glass glittering like malevolent stars on the floor. But in the jagged remains still clinging to the frame, her reflection stood whole and unharmed.
It tilted its head, watching her with a predatory grin.
Claire backed away, her breath catching in her throat. "This isn't real," she whispered.
The reflection stepped forward, its movements jerky and unnatural. With each step it took, Claire felt her body grow colder, as though something was being pulled from her.
She turned and ran, but every mirror she passed—the one in the bathroom, the small one in the bedroom—showed the reflection coming closer, no matter where she was. It was everywhere.
Finally, she reached the front door, yanking it open with trembling hands. She stumbled out into the night, only to find the world outside had changed. The streets of Babblebrook were now twisted and dark, the buildings warped and looming like grotesque caricatures of themselves.
And then she saw them—figures standing in the broken windows, their faces warped like reflections in uneven glass. They stared at her, their hollow eyes glowing faintly.
Claire screamed, but the sound seemed to vanish before it reached her ears. She ran, her lungs burning, but the road only circled back to the millhouse no matter where she turned.
The front door stood open, the shattered mirror waiting for her like a hungry maw.
"Come back," a voice whispered. It was her voice, soft and coaxing.
Claire stepped backward, her body trembling as a figure emerged from the doorway. It was her reflection, but no longer confined to the glass. It walked freely now, its smile stretching too wide, its eyes dark and endless.
Before Claire could scream, it lunged toward her, and the world went black.
The next morning, Babblebrook was as still as ever. But in the millhouse's cracked mirror, a new reflection stood silently, its eyes wide with terror.
The real Claire was gone. And the thing that now wore her face smiled.