Ethan Matthews sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the cracked lamp across the room. The dim light flickered, casting long, wavering shadows on the yellowed walls. His mind replayed the previous night in endless loops: the faint giggle at his door, Jack's grotesque death, the metallic tang of something unnatural clinging to his senses, and that whisper — soft, intimate, wrong — "Do you think I'm beautiful?"
He rubbed his temples, trying to squeeze the sense back into his head. Surely, there had to be a logical explanation. Some prankster with too much time on their hands? A copycat exploiting old local myths? Even in the dense fog of Raven's Creek, reason had to exist.
The knock came suddenly, sharp and deliberate, rattling the doorframe. Ethan jumped, heart hammering. Two uniformed police officers stood in the hallway, expressionless and methodical, the mist outside curling around their boots.
"Mr. Matthews," one said, voice clipped. "We need you to come with us."
Ethan swallowed hard, fingers tightening on the strap of his bag. "Of course," he replied, voice steadier than he felt. He followed them out into the fog-blanketed streets, each step sinking into the wet asphalt, droplets clinging to his jacket.
The police station smelled of old paper, cheap coffee, and disinfectant — a combination that pressed on the lungs and made the room feel both sterile and suffocating. Behind a cluttered desk sat Sheriff Dalton Reed. Broad-shouldered, tall, with graying streaks across his hair, his eyes were sharp, measuring, and wary.
"You're Ethan Matthews?" Reed asked without lifting his gaze from the scattered files.
"That's me."
"Room six at the Hollow Inn?"
"Yes, sir."
Reed's eyes finally met Ethan's, and for a moment, the weight of his gaze pinned him in place. "You're in town for the killings, huh?"
Ethan nodded, trying to mask the tension rising in his chest. "I cover small-town mysteries… unusual crimes."
Reed leaned back, fingers steepled. "Unusual is one thing. Murder is another. Jack's body… it doesn't fit any ordinary pattern. Explain yourself."
"I had nothing to do with him!" Ethan exclaimed, voice tight. "I was next door briefly — touched the doorknob as I passed. That's all. I didn't see anything else."
The sheriff's gaze didn't waver. "You've been digging into old files, patterns, rumors… stirring the past. You understand what you're meddling with?"
Ethan straightened, resolve battling unease. "Actually, yes. I've gone through the town's records — missing persons reports, police files, archives. There's a pattern. Victims vanishing after… strange circumstances. Someone's copying old methods, or worse, continuing them."
Reed's expression softened slightly, as if Ethan's words confirmed suspicions he'd carried for years. "Raven's Creek has a dark history," he said quietly. "Some dismiss it as legend, but there's truth in it. A woman appears when the night is thick, whispers to the living… leaves her victims changed, altered. People remember her… a slit-mouth, a grin no one forgets. Names vary, but the essence remains."
Ethan's pulse quickened. "A woman?"
"Unforgettable," Reed said grimly. "She doesn't forgive curiosity lightly. You need to leave, Matthews. Tonight."
Ethan's jaw tightened. "I can't just walk away."
"You can live longer if you do," Reed replied, voice low, warning but not unkind.
Ethan stepped back into the fog, heart hammering, fists clenched. Fear, disbelief, and stubborn defiance swirled inside him. How could he abandon the investigation when so much lay uncovered? The fog pressed against the glass like icy fingers, curling around streetlamps, thickening with each breath he took. Shadows warped into shapes — twisting, whispering, watching.
A voice broke the tense silence.
"Ethan!"
Clara Monroe emerged from the mist, gray eyes sharp and unwavering, yet softened with quiet concern. Her presence was steady, practical, not sentimental — a stark contrast to the eerie fog.
"How… how are you here?" Ethan asked, startled.
"I came to hand you something," she said, holding a bundle of yellowed files and notes. "I think it might be important. You're the only one who could make sense of it."
Ethan accepted the bundle, flipping one open. His breath caught — it was the case file for her sister, Samantha. The details, faded and brittle, spoke of panic, missing hours, and a town in silent dread.
"I'll study these," he murmured, tucking the papers carefully. "You really think I can… figure this out?"
Clara hesitated, eyes locking with his. "I think you can. Just… promise me you won't rush headlong into danger without thinking it through."
Ethan nodded, solemn. "I promise. I'll be careful — and I'll get to the bottom of this."
She gave a faint nod, then turned, disappearing back into the swirling fog. Each step she took seemed to dissolve into the mist, leaving Ethan with only the echo of her words and the growing weight of dread.
Back at the Hollow Inn, the fog pressed harder against the windows, curling around the building like living fingers. Ethan set up his laptop and began reviewing CCTV footage from the lobby and hallways, hands trembling. Grainy black-and-white images flickered with static, shadows twisting unnaturally.
At the stroke of midnight, a pale, shapeless figure glided past the lobby, deliberate and silent, vanishing around the corner. Ethan rewound, paused, zoomed in. Nothing familiar. Nothing human. Only movement — slow, deliberate, impossible.
His gaze drifted toward the full-length mirror in the corner. It trembled slightly, then spiderwebbed with cracks, the glass splintering without cause. For a fleeting heartbeat, the reflection smiled. Not him — the reflection — and the grin stretched unnaturally wide, teeth glinting faintly in the dim light.
Ethan's stomach dropped. His chest constricted. The room seemed to shrink around him, each shadow stretching longer, darker, and more intent. The fog outside pressed against the glass, thick, suffocating, as though the night itself had turned sentient and was peering inside.
He backed away, heart hammering, hands shaking. His rational mind screamed for an explanation — a trick of light, fatigue, stress — but the metallic tang in the air told a different story.
Some reflections aren't what they seem — and some smiles aren't yours to control.