The fog had thickened again by the time Ethan and Clara reached the library. Drops of rain streaked the glass windows, each one catching the dull amber glow of the streetlamps outside. The air inside was stale and heavy, carrying the scent of damp paper and old dust. It felt like the whole building had been holding its breath for decades.
Ethan rubbed his temples as they made their way through the archives section, his mind still replaying the image from that cracked mirror — his reflection smiling back, lips bleeding. He forced the thought away and focused on the task before him.
"Margaret Hale," he murmured, rifling through a stack of worn municipal records. "Owner of Crestwood Clinic. Medical licenses… permits…"
He froze. "Dr. Lester Moreland — that name's on the sign outside the clinic."
Clara leaned in, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Maybe he was her surgeon?"
"Maybe," Ethan replied, frowning as he scanned the report. "But it says here he's been dead for twenty years. Cause of death — blood loss. Found in his home with both cheeks slit open."
Clara's voice dropped to a whisper. "Just like the other victims…"
Ethan shut the folder, his jaw tightening. "So it started before her victims. It started with those around her."
She flipped open another binder, her eyes narrowing. "Hold on — there's another name here. Someone who evaluated her mental state after her surgeries." She turned the page toward him. "Dr. Elijah Crowe."
Ethan read the file aloud:
Patient: Margaret Hale.
Condition: Dissociative trauma following facial disfigurement. Emotional stability: fragile. Recommendation: supervised therapy. Avoid mirrors or reflective surfaces.
A chill passed through Clara. "Her psychiatrist."
He nodded slowly. "And probably the last person who knew what she was trying to do."
At the back of the file, Ethan found a final handwritten note:
She asks for something I cannot give — something unnatural. She believes a ritual involving an imported mirror can preserve her beauty eternally. I fear what will happen if she succeeds.
Ethan stared at the line until the ink blurred. "So she wasn't just vain. She wanted immortality — beauty that never fades."
Clara looked out the rain-streaked window. "And maybe… she found it."
They sat in silence for a long moment, the rain drumming on the roof.
Finally, Ethan spoke. "If Crowe's still alive, he might be the only one left who knows what really happened."
Clara nodded. "Let's find him."
She disappeared into the back office and returned with a faded card. "Here — Dr. Elijah Crowe. Last known address: 17 Alder Lane."
Ethan grabbed his coat. "Then that's where we start."
As they stepped into the drizzle, Clara glanced back at the window. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw something in the glass — a faint ripple, like someone smiling from the inside. But when she blinked, it was gone.
They sat in silence inside Ethan's car, doors clicking shut against the mist. The interior smelled faintly of leather and rain. For a moment, neither of them moved — both still carrying the weight of what they'd read.
Ethan turned the key. The engine sputtered, headlights cutting weak tunnels through the fog. "So… Alder Lane," he muttered.
Clara looked up from the folder on her lap. "That's where Crowe lives — or lived. Do you think he'll even talk to us?"
"At this point," Ethan said, "I'll settle for him answering the door."
The wipers squeaked across the windshield as they pulled out of town. The streets gave way to winding country roads, lined with skeletal trees and crooked mailboxes.
"Strange," Clara murmured. "Everything here feels like it's been asleep for decades."
"Maybe it has," Ethan said quietly. "Frozen things don't stay frozen forever. They crack."
Clara glanced at him. "You're still thinking about that mirror, aren't you?"
He exhaled through his nose. "Hard not to. It broke on its own. My reflection smiled — and I wasn't."
Clara hesitated. "Ethan… are you sure you didn't just—"
He cut her off. "Hallucinate? Lose it? I wish."
The GPS pinged, announcing their final turn. Alder Lane appeared as a narrow gravel road, half-swallowed by weeds. A crooked mailbox leaned near the entrance, its paint long gone. At the end of the lane stood a lonely house crouched beneath twisted trees.
The nameplate near the fence read: Dr. E. Crowe, M.D. (Retired).
Ethan killed the engine. "Well, that doesn't scream friendly welcome."
Clara forced a thin smile. "Maybe psychiatrists like privacy."
They climbed the porch. Every board creaked beneath their feet. The air smelled of pine and damp wood.
Clara knocked twice. Silence.
Ethan tried the handle — it turned. "Guess we're invited."
Inside, the house was dim and cold. Shelves of old medical books lined the walls, thick with dust. Somewhere deeper inside, a grandfather clock ticked softly.
Then — a voice: "You're late."
They turned toward the parlor.
Dr. Elijah Crowe sat by a dying fire, wrapped in a brown wool blanket. His skin was pale and thin, stretched like paper. His eyes, sharp and silver-gray, tracked them carefully.
"I didn't think anyone remembered Margaret Hale," he said. "But the dead are persistent."
Ethan took a cautious step forward. "We're here because people are dying. And all of it leads back to her."
Crowe's thin lips curved faintly. "Ah. Then the curse still breathes."
The fire crackled weakly. Ethan and Clara sat opposite the old man, the dim light painting his face in lines of shadow.
"You want to know the truth about Margaret Hale?" Crowe began, voice hoarse but steady. "Then listen carefully. Because she was never the monster — not at first."
He stared into the flames as he spoke.
"She was beautiful — not just in face, but in presence. The whole town worshiped her. Her husband, Henry, was her agent, her manager, her owner. When her fame started to fade, he pushed her harder. Surgeries. Skin grafts. Implants. He wanted to keep her young forever."
Clara frowned. "Until one went wrong."
Crowe nodded. "Yes. The last one. A reconstruction. Something slipped — or perhaps someone made it slip. Her face was ruined. I treated her after that. She came to me broken — not vain, but desperate to be seen again. Her husband abandoned her soon after."
He rubbed his temples, eyes glazing. "She told me she'd do anything to be beautiful again. She found old texts from Japan — Utsukushii Kagami, the Beautiful Mirror. A ritual that binds one's beauty to their reflection. Eternal, they said. But it required a sacrifice — a life, freely given."
Clara's voice trembled. "She believed that?"
"She didn't just believe," Crowe said softly. "She tried it. Her husband imported the mirror himself — lacquered black frame, symbols carved around the edges. The night she performed the ritual, she cut her palm and smeared the blood over her reflection."
He swallowed hard. "The next morning, her face was destroyed — like wax under a flame. And Henry… disappeared."
Ethan shifted forward. "And the mirror?"
"It was hidden," Crowe whispered. "Locked away beneath Raven's Creek. They said a priest sealed it there. But I still feel it sometimes — like it's watching through every mirror in town."
He looked directly at Ethan then. "You've seen it, haven't you?"
Ethan stiffened. "What do you mean?"
Crowe's voice dropped to a rasp. "You looked into her reflection. You felt her smile. She knows you now."
The words hung in the air like smoke. Ethan's pulse pounded. Clara glanced at him — she knew he wasn't denying it.
Crowe's face softened with pity. "She doesn't stop, Mr. Matthews. The mirror takes what it wants. Piece by piece."
He leaned back, whispering almost to himself. "I warned them. All of them. The beauty queens, the models, the women who fed their vanity — every one of them saw her before they died."
The fire sputtered violently, flames flaring blue for a moment. Ethan and Clara both flinched. Their shadows warped grotesquely on the wall — one of them smiling wider than it should.
Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone.
Crowe exhaled shakily. "Leave, before she notices you again. The dead grow curious when someone starts asking questions."
The drive back was wordless. The fog was thicker than before, swallowing the road and headlights alike. Clara's fingers gripped the seat edge as if the silence itself might reach out and choke them.
"You believe him, don't you?" she whispered finally.
Ethan didn't answer. He just stared at the road. In his mind, that cracked reflection smiled again.
When they reached town, Clara went home, but Ethan lingered outside the motel. His reflection in the car window was faint, distorted by rain — but this time, for one terrifying instant, it looked like it whispered something he couldn't hear.
He went to bed with the lights on.
Morning came cold and gray. Rain tapped at the glass like fingernails. Ethan was still half-asleep when his phone rang.
"Mr. Matthews?" Sheriff Reed's voice was grim. "You'd better come down to Alder Lane."
Ethan's gut turned to ice. "What happened?"
"Dr. Crowe. We found him dead."
The house was surrounded by yellow tape when Ethan arrived. The air reeked of copper and decay. Reed stood by the door, hat in hand. "No signs of forced entry," he said quietly. "No struggle."
Inside, Crowe's body sat slumped in the same armchair, facing the cold fireplace. His lips were sewn shut — thick black thread biting through gray flesh.
At his feet lay a fragment of mirror, gleaming faintly.
Clara turned away, gagging. Ethan crouched near it. The shard was wet, almost breathing. For just a second, his reflection smiled.
He stumbled back. "She found him."
Reed's brow furrowed. "Who did?"
Ethan's voice came out hollow. "Margaret Hale."
The sheriff looked uneasy but said nothing. Behind him, the windowpane caught the light — a smear of red curving upward into a faint, mocking smile.
That night, Ethan sat alone in his motel room. Every mirror was covered with towels. Still, he swore he could hear them — soft, rhythmic sounds, like a needle pulling through skin.
When he finally whispered, "Why me?"
The silence smiled back.