The morning fog of Raven's Creek refused to lift. It curled around rooftops and stretched across narrow streets like a living thing, pressing against windows, dampening sounds, softening edges. Ethan Matthews moved through it deliberately, files from Clara pressed to his chest, mind still tangled with the events of the previous night. The cracked mirror, the impossible smile in his reflection — the image haunted him, an ache behind his eyes that no sleep had erased.
He reached the library, its gothic spires barely visible through the mist. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of dust, mildew, and old paper. Clara Monroe looked up from shelving a stack of books. Her gray eyes, sharp yet guarded, softened slightly when she saw him.
"You look like hell," she said bluntly, placing a hand on a pile of worn volumes.
Ethan paused, breathing heavily. "Last night… something happened in my room. The mirror — it broke on its own. For a moment, I saw myself smiling. But I wasn't smiling. I… I can't explain it."
Clara's gaze narrowed. "You weren't hurt? Nothing came near you?"
"No. Nothing physical," he admitted, tightening his grip on the files. "But I need to look at that Margaret Hale file — the one I only skimmed before. I didn't have time to go through it properly."
She nodded, setting her work aside. "I was wondering when you'd ask. Follow me."
The archive room smelled of mildew and paper, the floorboards groaning faintly beneath their feet. Brass keys turned in locks with a click that echoed through the cold, silent air. Clara retrieved the file, careful not to tear its fragile edges. The yellowed paper crackled faintly as Ethan opened it.
The photographs spilled into view first. Margaret Hale, young, smiling — a beauty queen in the old days. But the edges of the photos were curled and burned, and her smile seemed… off. Not sad, not angry, but distorted, as though something had pulled at the corners of her mouth. Ethan felt a shiver trace his spine.
"She looks… wrong," Clara said quietly, leaning over his shoulder. "My sister said the same thing once about someone she saw. The smile wasn't just unusual — it was unnatural. Something in her face was… not right."
Ethan studied the photographs, lingering on the details: the unnatural stretch of her lips, the faint dark lines at the corners of her mouth. He flipped through newspaper clippings — pageant wins, articles about cosmetic surgeries, notes of complications. The girl had been obsessed with perfection, with beauty, to the point of risking her own life.
"Her life… it reads like a warning," Ethan muttered, tapping a photograph. "She wanted to be perfect. Everything else — school, friends, family — seems to fade behind that obsession."
Clara's fingers twitched over the folder. "And in the end, she disappeared. Or maybe she was never gone at all. My sister… she saw someone like her, once, years ago. And it… destroyed her."
Ethan turned to her. "Clara… you think I'm going to… encounter this?"
"I don't know," Clara admitted, eyes downcast. "But I believe you might be the only one who can figure it out. Just… promise me you'll be careful."
He nodded solemnly. "I'll do everything I can to understand it… for your sister, and to make sure this doesn't happen to anyone else."
The next part of the file detailed locations associated with Margaret's life. Among the scribbled notes was an address: Crestwood Clinic, abandoned for years. Ethan's eyes narrowed. "We need to see it. Seeing the place might tell us more than these files."
Clara hesitated a moment, brushing a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "If anyone should see it, it should be you," she said finally. "I… I wanted you to have this. It might help you piece things together."
The fog thickened as they approached the clinic. It was a hulking, decrepit building at the edge of town, half-hidden by overgrown pines and weeds. Windows were boarded, paint peeling in long streaks, roof sagging. Wind rattled the boards, carrying a faint metallic tang that reminded Ethan of the Hollow Inn mirror.
Even before entering, the clinic exuded a heaviness, a sense of something left undone. Each step on the cracked sidewalk echoed like a warning. They pushed open the door slowly, the hinges groaning. Dust rose in clouds around their feet, thick and suffocating.
Inside, the clinic smelled of mildew, rust, and decay. Broken equipment littered the floor — chairs, tables, metal trays. Rusted surgical tools lay scattered, catching faint streaks of light from cracked windows. Papers, yellowed with age, crinkled beneath their steps. Silence pressed against them, broken only by the occasional creak of wood or scurry of unseen rats.
Ethan's gaze traveled across the room, lingering on the faint outline of an old mirror propped against the far wall. Its surface was dirty, fractured, and spider-webbed with cracks. He felt drawn to it, compelled by curiosity.
He stepped closer. Dust motes floated in the faint light, and a draft whispered through the broken windows. His hand hovered near the glass. For a moment, everything seemed still, unreal. Then, the mirror trembled, cracking violently across its surface.
For a brief, horrifying moment, his reflection smiled, blood dripping from his mouth — but he wasn't smiling.
Ethan stumbled back, heart hammering. The blood in the reflection seemed vivid, impossibly real. He checked his face instinctively — nothing. Only the broken shards lay scattered at his feet, catching the dim light, the mirror's jagged edges glinting like teeth.
Clara's voice cut through the thick silence. "Are you okay?"
"I… I'm fine," Ethan said, voice uneven. "It's just… the reflection. That's all. The mirror… nothing more."
The two of them took a long moment to collect themselves before leaving the clinic. Outside, fog swirled around their ankles and pressed against the building, curling into corners and clinging to walls like cold fingers. The files were still in Ethan's grip, heavy with the weight of Margaret Hale's life, obsessions, and secrets.
Even in the fading light, the memory of the mirror — his reflection bleeding from the mouth, smiling when he wasn't — clung to him, a reminder that some things in Raven's Creek were far from over. The broken clinic mirror lay behind them, silent and ominous. Yet the image of his reflection — smiling, bleeding, impossible — lingered, an echo of something ancient and unresolved waiting just beyond the fog.