The morning broke gray and wet over Raven's Creek. A thin mist crawled between the pine trees, wrapping the streets in gauze. Ethan stepped out of his motel room, his eyes stinging from lack of sleep. The towels still hung over every mirror inside, but even with them covered, he hadn't felt alone.
His boots splashed through shallow puddles as he crossed the parking lot. The world smelled of cold rain and something metallic — faint, but sharp, like blood on old steel.
Clara was already waiting by her car. Her eyes looked as tired as his. "I didn't think you'd sleep," she said.
"I didn't," Ethan replied flatly. "You hear from Reed?"
She nodded, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear. "They're keeping Crowe's house sealed for now. But there've been… other incidents."
Ethan's brows drew together. "What kind of incidents?"
She hesitated. "People are saying they hear whispers in mirrors. Some swear they've seen faces smiling back that aren't their own. And three deaths overnight — same injuries. The town's losing its mind."
He exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You think it's her?"
"I don't know," Clara said. "But whatever this is… it's spreading."
They stood there for a long moment, neither wanting to move. The motel's neon sign flickered weakly behind them — "VACANCY" blinking like a dying heartbeat.
Finally, Ethan spoke. "You said you wanted to check something at the library?"
Clara nodded. "There might be references to those mirror rituals Crowe mentioned. I found a book last night — Occult Reflections of the Late 20th Century. It mentions something about transference through mimicry."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning… reflections can act independently if the ritual wasn't properly contained."
Ethan's throat tightened. He didn't say it aloud, but he remembered the cracked mirror in his room — the bleeding smile that wasn't his.
They drove in silence through the fog. Main Street was nearly empty. The few people who ventured out kept their heads down, avoiding every shop window they passed. Curtains were drawn. Glass storefronts covered in sheets. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
When they reached the library, the building looked darker than usual, the condensation on its windows distorting the light inside.
Clara unlocked the front door. "I'll check the archives," she said quietly. "You look through the folklore section."
Ethan followed her in. The air was cool and heavy with the scent of wet paper. Their footsteps echoed faintly across the old wooden floorboards. For a moment, everything was still — until Ethan heard it.
A faint tick-tick-tick, like fingernails tapping glass.
He turned. The sound came from the tall mirror mounted near the front desk — an old piece framed in oak, warped slightly with age. His reflection stared back at him, pale and drawn.
"Clara," he called, his voice tight. "You have this mirror here for decoration?"
She looked up from a pile of books. "It came with the building," she said. "Why?"
Before he could answer, the mirror shivered. Not cracked — it rippled, like water disturbed by breath.
Ethan took a step back. "Clara…"
She turned, her reflection following half a second too late.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then the reflection tilted its head — the wrong way. Its lips curled into an awful, knowing smile.
In Clara's own voice, hollow and muffled like a recording, it whispered:
"Do you think I'm beautiful?"
Clara stumbled back, slamming into the desk. Ethan grabbed her arm and yanked her away just as the mirror spidered with cracks. A single line of red — like a cut — ran across the reflection's mouth before the glass went still again.
They stood frozen, hearts hammering, the echo of that voice still hanging in the air. Outside, a siren wailed somewhere in the fog — distant but growing louder.
Clara's voice trembled. "It's her. She's moving through them now."
Ethan swallowed hard, staring at the fractured glass. "Then we're already too late."
The sound of shattering glass still echoed in their ears as Ethan and Clara stumbled out of the library. The fog had thickened again — heavier now, tinted faintly red under the dull streetlights. For a few seconds, they just stood there, gulping air, neither daring to speak.
Ethan's hand was trembling. "That voice…" he muttered, staring back at the dark windows. "It wasn't just an echo."
Clara hugged her arms around herself. "It wasn't supposed to be real," she said softly. "The ritual—Crowe said it needed a vessel. Maybe it's found one."
Ethan's jaw clenched. "Or it's looking for one."
They climbed into his car, the windshield fogging instantly. He turned on the heater, but the air that came out was cold, stale, and damp, as if the fog itself had seeped inside. For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Clara broke the silence. "There's something else you should know," she said, her voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. "My sister… before she died… she called me that night. I told you she said, 'I told her she was pretty.' But she said something else after that."
Ethan turned to look at her. "What was it?"
Clara's eyes glistened with memory. "She said, 'I saw her in the mirror, Clara. She smiled when I didn't.'"
The air in the car seemed to freeze. Ethan gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. "That's exactly what I saw."
Clara looked down, voice trembling. "Maybe… it's not the mirrors themselves. Maybe she uses them like… doors. To watch, to whisper."
"Then how do we stop her?"
Clara shook her head. "I don't think we can—not yet. The mirror Crowe mentioned… the one under Raven's Creek. That's where she started. And if she's getting stronger…" She trailed off, staring into the fogged windshield.
Ethan started the car, voice low. "Then that's where we'll have to end it."
But the words felt hollow, even to him.
The drive back to the motel was silent except for the hiss of tires on wet asphalt. Every storefront they passed was dark. Curtains drawn. No light, no movement. The town seemed to be holding its breath — waiting.
When Ethan finally pulled into the gravel lot, the motel sign flickered weakly — "VACANCY" blinking red through the mist. Clara placed a hand on his arm before he got out.
"Promise me something," she said.
"What?"
"That if things get worse… if she starts coming for you—"
"She already is," Ethan interrupted. His voice was quiet, but certain.
Clara looked down. "Then don't face it alone."
He gave a faint nod, but didn't answer. He didn't want to promise something he wasn't sure he could keep.
Clara drove off into the fog, her taillights fading until they were swallowed completely. Ethan stood there for a moment, watching, listening. The air was still — too still. Not even the usual hum of insects.
When he finally turned back toward his room, he noticed something strange: his window, the one facing the parking lot, was fogged from the outside.
He frowned. It had been clear when he left.
Ethan stepped closer. The condensation looked deliberate, smeared unevenly as if someone had breathed across the glass. He reached out and wiped a small patch with his sleeve.
His breath caught.
Across the window, faint lines had been scratched into the glass — thin and deliberate, each letter jagged as if carved by fingernails.
They formed a single word:
S A Y I T
Ethan stumbled back, heart thudding in his chest. The scratches glistened under the pale light, still wet — as though freshly made.
He looked around the parking lot. No one. Just fog curling around the lampposts and the distant drip of rainwater from the gutters.
He swallowed hard and stepped back inside. The air was colder than before, unnaturally so. Every covered mirror seemed to hum faintly beneath the towels, a soft vibration — like a whisper too low to hear.
He turned on the lamp. The bulb flickered once… then steadied.
"Not tonight," he muttered, forcing himself to sound calm. "You're not real."
The floor creaked behind him.
Ethan froze. Slowly, he turned toward the sound.
Nothing.
The shadows stretched long across the room, bending toward him, edges soft and trembling. He took a step forward, heart hammering. Then another.
A faint tap-tap-tap echoed from the bathroom door — three times, slow and deliberate.
His throat went dry.
He reached for the handle, pushed it open — nothing inside but the covered mirror and the dim light bulb swinging slightly. He stepped in, exhaled shakily, and turned back toward the main room.
That's when he saw it.
On his bed lay something that hadn't been there before.
A mask.
White porcelain. Cracked clean down the middle, one side still flawless, the other split and jagged like a wound. Dried red streaks ran from the edges of the cracks — not paint, but something darker.
Blood.
He stared at it, every instinct screaming to throw it away, to run — but he couldn't move. The air around him thickened, pressing in like invisible hands.
Then the whisper came.
"Say it."
He spun around, but there was no one there — only his reflection, faint in the dark TV screen, smiling.
He backed away, pulse roaring in his ears.
The lights flickered once. Twice. Then went out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
And from somewhere deep within it — behind him, beside him, inside him — came a laugh. Soft. Feminine. Shattered.
Ethan's breath hitched. He didn't scream. He couldn't.
The whisper came again, closer now, brushing his ear like cold breath.
"Do you think I'm beautiful?"
The porcelain mask slid from the pillow, landing at his feet with a faint, brittle crack.
He didn't move.
Because in its reflection — faint, almost imperceptible — the crack on the mask smiled.