pgsqlCopyEditI BOUGHT A CHEAP ANTIQUE MIRROR AT A YARD SALE – IT SHOWED ME THINGS I COULDN’T EXPLAIN.
The price was so low, I couldn’t resist. Back home, the antique mirror seemed to hum with a strange energy.
At first, I just noticed subtle differences: my reflection wearing clothes I didn’t own, small objects moving in the background. I chalked it up to tricks of the light.
But last night, staring into the mirror, I saw my reflection turn away. A man stood behind *her* – a man I knew was supposed to be dead, my estranged father.
He mouthed something to me through the glass, something that chilled me to the core: “She knows.”
Then, the reflection turned back to me, but the eyes… they weren’t mine anymore. ⬇️
The eyes in the mirror were cold, calculating, a stark contrast to my own usually warm brown. Fear, a cold, clawing dread, gripped me. I stumbled back, knocking over a lamp. The sudden crash snapped me out of the hypnotic gaze, but the image lingered, burned into my mind. His words echoed: “She knows.” Who knew? And what did she know?
The next few days were a blur of frantic research and sleepless nights. My father’s death, ruled a tragic accident five years ago, suddenly felt…wrong. The police report was vague, the details hazy. I dug deeper, unearthing whispers of a shady business deal, a rival company, and threats. The more I learned, the more I realised my father’s death wasn’t accidental. It was murder.
The mirror, however, remained my most unsettling companion. It wasn’t just showing me glimpses of the past; it was changing. The ornate frame, once a dull gold, now seemed to shimmer with an unnatural light. The reflection itself was becoming increasingly distorted, the man behind my reflection appearing more frequently, sometimes even reaching out a spectral hand through the glass.
One evening, I saw her. Not my reflection, but a woman I’d never seen before – beautiful, ethereal, yet with the same chilling eyes as the mirror’s reflection. She spoke, her voice a silken whisper only I could hear. “He wasn’t your father,” she hissed, “He used you. The mirror is a key, a passage.”
Panic turned to anger. I smashed the mirror with a heavy iron poker. The shards scattered, but the strange energy didn’t dissipate; it intensified. A vortex of swirling light filled the room, sucking me in. I screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the blinding light.
I woke up in a dimly lit room, bound to a chair. The woman from the mirror stood over me, a cruel smile playing on her lips. “He entrusted me with his secrets, and you, his unwitting pawn, revealed everything,” she said. “The inheritance, the location…everything.”
It was then I understood. My father hadn’t been murdered; he’d orchestrated his own death, creating a false trail to protect something. And I, through my innocent curiosity, had provided the key he needed. The inheritance wasn’t money; it was the location of a hidden, powerful artifact.
Suddenly, the room’s door burst open. A detective, the same one who’d investigated my father’s “accident,” stood silhouetted in the doorway, his gun drawn. The woman lunged at him, but he was faster. The ensuing struggle ended swiftly; she was subdued.
In the aftermath, the detective revealed he’d been onto her for years, tracing the trail of stolen artifacts to her. My father’s “accident” had been a calculated move, a feint to divert suspicion. The mirror wasn’t magical; it was a carefully crafted tool, using subtle psychological manipulation and cleverly concealed cameras to extract information from me. My unwitting participation had unwittingly led to her arrest. My ordeal was over, but the chilling memory of the woman’s eyes, the eerie reflection, and the knowledge of my father’s elaborate deception, would forever haunt me. The mirror’s secret was solved, but the chilling echo of his manipulation remained.