The freezing mist flooded the room, wrapping around Lena like ghostly fingers. She gasped, stumbling backward, her vision blurring as the air grew thick. The whispers surrounded her now, overlapping, urgent.
"Lena, come closer."
"You don't have to be afraid."
"You brought us back. Let us in."
The voice that had mimicked her grandmother was gone now, replaced by many voices. Some were deep and guttural, others high and childlike, but all of them carried the same eerie familiarity—like forgotten dreams clawing their way back into her mind.
Lena squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the leather-bound journal in her hands like a lifeline.
Think, Lena. What does it want?
The answer was in the whispers.
The fog wanted her.
It had always wanted her.
She forced her legs to move, staggering toward the dresser across the room. The air around her thickened, the whispers turning into something worse—laughter. Low and knowing.
The mirror above the dresser reflected the fog rolling in behind her, shifting like something alive. But there was something else in the glass.
Not just fog.
Figures.
Dozens of them, their shapes barely visible through the swirling mist. Some were tall and spindly, others hunched and broken. Their hollow eyes locked onto hers.
And they were smiling.
A sharp, cold hand gripped her wrist.
Lena screamed and ripped herself free, spinning around.
No one was there.
But the fog had grown denser, pressing in, curling around her legs. The whispering had stopped. Now, there was only breathing—deep, rattling, right behind her ear.
She turned slowly.
A figure stood inches away, its face still obscured by the mist. But its hand—long and clawed—reached for her again.
Lena grabbed the first thing she could from the dresser—a rusted brass candlestick—and swung.
The figure vanished before the candlestick connected, dissolving into the fog. But the impact shattered the mirror, and for a split second, Lena saw something in the broken glass.
Not just her reflection.
Something inside the mirror, looking back at her.
Her own face.
But wrong.
Her skin was pale, her lips stretched into a too-wide smile. And her eyes—black and empty.
Then the reflection spoke.
"You are already one of us."