Clara suddenly burst into Ethan's motel room, heart hammering. "Ethan!" she called.
Everything vanished.
The porcelain mask on the pillow.
The whispering fog.
Even the icy, suffocating chill.
Only the faint hum of the fluorescent light overhead remained.
Ethan sat on the edge of his bed, wide-eyed, pulse racing. Clara's hand touched his shoulder. "Ethan, are you—"
"I'm fine," he said, though his voice trembled. "But it was close. She was here. Whispering. I heard her asking…" He swallowed, shaking. "'Do you think I'm beautiful?' Then you came in and… it all disappeared."
Clara's brow furrowed, unease flashing across her features. "I don't know why, but something told me I had to come. You might be in trouble."
Ethan let out a shaky laugh. "Good instincts, apparently. But it's not gone. Not really." He gestured toward the mirrors covered with towels. "She wants me to answer. Wants something from me."
Clara's voice softened. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out. Together."
Ethan exhaled and stood. "I think we need more information — from Crowe's house. There's still something there, something he didn't say in his notes."
Clara nodded. "Then let's go."
They drove through the creeping mist to Alder Lane, the town shrinking behind them. The lane itself was barely visible under the low-hanging fog, gravel crunching beneath the tires. When they arrived at Dr. Elijah Crowe's residence, the yellow police tape fluttered weakly across the driveway. Two patrol cars were parked at awkward angles nearby, their lights dimmed by the fog.
Ethan stopped the car at the edge of the lane. "Here it is," he muttered. "We need to see what Crowe left behind."
Clara glanced at him nervously. "Do you think the sheriff will let us inside?"
Ethan shook his head. "We'll find out."
They approached the tape cautiously. Sheriff Dalton Reed emerged from the mist, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. His eyes narrowed at the sight of them.
"You shouldn't be here," he said flatly.
"We need to see the house," Ethan said firmly. "Crowe's notes weren't complete. There's something important here about Margaret Hale. If we don't find it, more people will die."
Reed's expression hardened. "You think rummaging through a dead man's house will stop a ghost story? It won't."
Clara spoke before Ethan could. "Sheriff, you've seen the pattern. Crowe treated Margaret Hale. He recorded everything. If her curse is tied to mirrors, his files might tell us how it works. Please — just a quick look inside."
Reed studied their faces for a long moment, then finally exhaled. "Fine. But five minutes. And no touching anything else. If anyone asks, I didn't see you."
He lifted the tape and gestured them in.
Inside, the house smelled of dust and old paper, faintly antiseptic. The walls were lined with framed medical certificates and diplomas, some aged, some cracked. A single drawer, slightly ajar, caught Ethan's eye.
He pulled it open. Inside lay a stack of folders — Patient Records, 1983–1986. The first folder bore a familiar name: Margaret Hale. Ethan flipped through pages of meticulous notes, scribbled diagrams, and faint ink stains.
Clara leaned over his shoulder. "Patient obsessed with 'perfect reflection'… recurring fixation on vanity… mentions mirrors as gateways to beauty. Prescribed therapy ineffective. Experimental rituals described… imported mirror from Japan, Kyoto."
Ethan's eyes narrowed. "That's it. The mirror she used during the last surgery. The anchor of everything."
They both paused, letting the weight of the discovery settle. The room was silent except for the ticking of a distant grandfather clock.
Ethan slipped the notebook into his bag. "This is exactly what we needed. Now we understand the mechanism — and maybe how she chooses her victims."
Clara looked out the foggy window. "You think she's still watching us?"
Ethan's jaw tightened. "She's always watching."
Back at the motel, Ethan closed the door behind them and leaned against it, exhaling a long, shaky breath. Clara set the notebook on the small table by the window. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the fog outside made the world beyond the glass a muted blur.
"Let's see what Crowe didn't want anyone to understand," Ethan said, flipping open the folder marked Margaret Hale – Experimental Observations.
Clara pulled a chair closer, settling beside him. "Do you think it's safe?" she asked, glancing at the covered mirrors around the room. "We've seen what happens if we underestimate her."
Ethan gave a grim smile. "Safety is relative at this point."
He began reading aloud: "Patient exhibits increasing obsession with her own reflection. Mirrors become loci for attention and emotional fixation. Rituals documented suggest that hesitation in affirming her beauty feeds her influence. The ritual requires active recognition from observers — verbal acknowledgment, direct gaze. Delay or refusal can provoke aggression."
Clara's eyes widened. "So it's not just vanity. She feeds on doubt. If you hesitate… you're at risk."
Ethan's gaze dropped to the floor. "That explains the victims' faces we saw in the files. Those who ignored her presence in reflections… those who mocked or hesitated… they didn't survive."
Clara traced a finger along a diagram. "Here — Crowe mentions the mirror used in the last surgery. Lacquered black frame, carved symbols, imported from Kyoto. He calls it the anchor. It seems the ritual ties her essence to that specific mirror."
Ethan frowned. "So the mirror she used isn't just an object. It's like… a conduit. If someone looks at any mirror and hesitates, she can reach through because the anchor exists somewhere."
Clara's voice softened, almost a whisper. "And that's why she appears when you were alone last night. She tests hesitation, measures your reaction."
The air in the room felt heavier. Ethan's pulse thumped in his ears as he turned the pages. Crowe had meticulously recorded the steps of Margaret Hale's rituals: blood drawn over mirrors, repetitive affirmations of beauty, precise timings, and conditions. A chilling pattern emerged — the more people deferred the recognition of her reflected form, the more violent her influence became.
"I don't like this," Ethan muttered. "We're talking about someone who can punish hesitation… who can make reflections bleed, whisper, even manipulate reality. And the anchor — wherever that mirror is — she can reach through any other mirror in town."
Clara nodded. "Exactly. Crowe wrote notes about a protective measure — cover mirrors, avoid direct confrontation, never speak while unsure. But it's all theoretical. No one knows what happens if she's provoked beyond the ritual's control."
Ethan's eyes narrowed. He picked up one of the smaller mirrors in the room, carefully holding it in front of him. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, almost imperceptibly, his own reflection lingered a heartbeat too long. The corners of his mouth twitched, though he hadn't moved.
Clara gasped, pointing. "Ethan! Step back!"
He dropped the mirror with a dull clatter, heart hammering. The reflection seemed normal again, but the unease lingered like a shadow in his chest.
Clara took a deep breath, flipping another page. "There's more — Crowe mentions incremental feeding. Small lapses in attention, repeated glances, emotional fixation. She grows stronger with every observer who delays recognition. And the mirror itself… it records these moments, storing her presence."
Ethan rubbed his temples. "So every hesitation, every doubt, every thought that goes unspoken — she feeds on it. It's… endless."
Clara's voice dropped. "And there's one thing here. Crowe speculated that if the anchor mirror were ever destroyed or removed from the ritual space, her influence would weaken. He calls it the linchpin. But he wasn't certain. He never completed the experiment."
The room was silent except for the soft patter of rain against the window. Ethan leaned back, staring at the covered mirrors, imagining her presence lurking behind each reflective surface.
"Clara…" he whispered, voice tight. "We can't just cover mirrors forever. At some point, she's going to test us. She'll want us to acknowledge her."
Clara shivered. "Do you think she can… enter the room through one of these mirrors?"
Ethan hesitated. "I don't know. But I saw what she can do when she's… allowed. That night, she nearly—" He stopped, swallowing hard.
A sudden movement in the bathroom mirror across the room caught his eye. The glass fogged slightly, though no one had breathed near it. Then, in the faint reflection, a shape formed. Not quite human, but undeniably there.
Ethan's pulse spiked. "Clara…"
She looked up. "What is it?"
He didn't move at first. The figure was standing behind him in the mirror. Pale, elongated, lips stretched in a smile too wide for a human face. But it was silent. Her eyes gleamed, staring straight at him.
Clara gasped, clutching his arm. "It's her…"
Ethan's hands shook as he stepped toward the mirror, only to have the figure vanish like smoke curling into the glass.
"Ethan," Clara said urgently, "this confirms it. Crowe's notes — the rituals, the anchor mirror — she doesn't need the original mirror to appear. She needs hesitation, doubt, fear. And she's feeding right now."
Ethan's chest tightened. "Then we have to find the anchor before she tests us any further."
Clara nodded, voice firm. "We need a plan. Every mirror, every reflection — she could be anywhere."
Ethan glanced around the motel room, feeling the weight of countless unseen eyes. Even with the covered mirrors, even with the notebook in hand, a sense of being watched pressed down on him.
The rain outside had stopped, leaving the night still and silent. But Ethan knew the silence was only temporary. Somewhere, through some reflective surface in town, she was waiting.
And soon, she would demand recognition.