Diary of the Investigator
Day 6
The dream stayed with me long after I woke. Her body, standing in that room of mirrors, her lips forming words that were not hers but mine.
I carried the weight of it into the day.
At the station, I tried to busy myself with reports. Paperwork is supposed to anchor a man. Yet each reflection I caught — the polished kettle in the break room, the carriage window on my way back — felt delayed, as if my image lagged a breath behind me.
I returned to the chamber again. I told myself it was duty, not obsession. The walls of mirrors remain unbroken, untouched. And yet… I counted thirteen reflections of myself where there should only have been twelve. I re-counted again and again, each time finding the same. I forced myself to leave before I reached twenty.
Day 7
The caretaker insists no one enters that room. But how can that be? The dust is shifted, the air colder each time I step inside. He would not meet my eye when I pressed him further. He muttered something about "echoes walking when men sleep." Superstition, perhaps. Or confession.
I ate little this evening. My fork clattered against the plate when I saw, in the dining-room mirror, a small figure standing behind me. When I turned, the room was empty.
Day 8
Another dream. This one crueler.
I stood in the chamber again, but the corpse on the floor was gone. Instead, every mirror held a different version of myself: older, younger, wounded, smiling, crying. One of them raised a hand, pressed it against the glass. Against my will, I mirrored the gesture. The surface felt warm.
I woke with my palm burning.
Day 9
I keep notes of every reflection now, hoping for reason.
Shaving mirror: steady, ordinary. Relief.
Train window: reflection blinked three times when I had not.
Office lamp: faint shine showed me with lips parted, whispering.
Hallway mirror at home: smiled. Too wide. Too long.
I turned the mirror to face the wall. Still, I hear faint tapping from behind it, as though fingernails drag against the silvered back.
Day 10
Interviews near the building yielded only fragments. One shopkeeper swore she heard music that night — a chant, slow and mournful. Another said she saw candlelight flicker in windows though the building was long dark. They speak in riddles, or perhaps my mind makes riddles of plain words.
Tonight, the bathroom mirror caught me by surprise. My reflection leaned closer, though I stood still. I stumbled back. The smile was mine, but not mine.
I am losing trust in glass.
Day 11
Sleep is a punishment now. The chamber returns each night. More bodies fill the floor. They do not speak, but their mouths open and close in silence, as if singing a hymn I cannot hear.
This morning, for the first time, I felt eyes on me in waking hours. Not from mirrors. From behind. Yet when I turned, the room was empty.
I am not alone. Not anymore.