The morning after the mirror incident, Lena decided two things:
She wasn't going to let some Victorian funhouse ruin her first decent sleep in weeks.
She needed coffee strong enough to perform an exorcism.
She shuffled into the kitchen wearing sweatpants and a hoodie that said "Resting Grief Face." The kitchen was a crime scene of cobwebs and vintage appliances that probably ran on souls. The coffee maker looked like a science experiment abandoned by Dr. Frankenstein.
"Please don't explode," she muttered, pressing a random switch.
It hissed. It growled. Then it spat out a stream of black sludge.
"Close enough." She poured it into a chipped mug labeled World's Okayest Daughter and took a sip. It tasted like despair and rust — her usual flavor profile.
She wandered through the mansion's dusty halls, trying not to make eye contact with the portraits. Each painting seemed to follow her, faces frozen mid-laugh. Somewhere in the walls, something tapped in rhythm — like a slow clap.
"Very funny," Lena said. "Five stars on Yelp for ambience."
Outside, the fog had thickened into something alive. When she stepped onto the porch, it curled around her ankles like a cat. The ocean below roared softly — a heartbeat in the mist.
Across the narrow road stood another building — squat, grey, and perfectly rectangular. A wooden sign over the door read:
Graves & Sons: Funeral Services. Established 1891.
Lena snorted. "Of course. The universe has jokes."
Inside the funeral home, the air smelled like lilies and disinfectant. A man stood at the counter, his back turned. He was tall, broad-shouldered, in a black shirt rolled at the sleeves. His dark hair fell slightly over his collar, and when he turned, Lena nearly dropped her mug.
He had a face that belonged in a movie — not a rom-com, but one of those brooding gothic adaptations where people fall in love while fainting.
"Uh. Hi," she said. "I'm your new neighbor. From the haunted cliché across the street."
He smiled faintly, polite but not quite warm. "Mortimer Manor." His voice was low, deliberate. "You must be Lena."
Her eyebrows rose. "Word travels fast."
"Not word," he said, reaching for a clipboard. "Sound. The house tends to… echo."
She stared. "Okay, that's a creepy thing to say before noon."
He gave a tiny nod. "Apologies. I meant it literally. Acoustics in this area carry."
"Sure. Acoustics." She took another sip of her sludge coffee. "So you, uh, run a morgue?"
He tilted his head. "Funeral home. 'Morgue' sounds clinical. I prefer to think of it as… a hospitality business for the departed."
Lena blinked. "You know, most people would say that sentence ironically."
His eyes — startlingly grey, like ash in sunlight — studied her for a beat too long. "Most people don't live at Mortimer Manor."
He offered her a tour, perhaps out of morbid curiosity. The embalming room gleamed with stainless steel and order. Vases of white flowers lined the walls. It was oddly peaceful.
"So," Lena said, glancing around, "this is where you… host guests?"
"Temporarily."
"Right. Airbnb for corpses. Five stars, quiet neighborhood, zero complaints."
His lips twitched — the ghost of a smile. "You joke about death easily."
"It's my coping mechanism. Some people drink. I tell jokes about coffins."
He glanced at her over his shoulder. "You should be careful making light of death in that house."
Lena frowned. "Why? The ghosts might heckle me?"
He didn't laugh. "Something like that."
Back at the mansion, the house seemed… expectant. The front door creaked open before she touched it. The lights flickered once, twice — then steadied.
Her mug clattered to the floor.
The coffee had turned to salt water.
She crouched, touching it. Cold. Briny. Real.
Somewhere upstairs, a door slammed.
"Alright, whoever's doing the haunted Airbnb bit, it's very immersive, but you're not getting five stars," she called.
No answer.
Instead, the mirror in the hallway began to hum. A low vibration that rattled her bones.
"Not today," she muttered, grabbing a towel to cover it. But when she lifted the towel, her reflection was gone.
Only words remained:
He's handsome, isn't he?
Her throat tightened. "Oh great. The mirror stalks my crushes now."
The letters smeared, rearranging.
He smells like dirt and roses. Don't trust him.
"Cool," Lena said shakily. "My house ghost is jealous. That's… new."
That night, she tried to write.
Her laptop screen blinked open to a blank document titled Funeral Jokes, But Make It Sexy. She typed a few lines:
If love is eternal, why does my ex still haunt my Netflix suggestions?
A chuckle drifted through the air — faint, male, cultured.
"Hello?"
The windowpane fogged, and a faint silhouette appeared in the glass — tall, slender, wearing what looked like a tailcoat.
"You again?" she said. "Listen, Ghost Guy, I don't do unsolicited hauntings before 10 AM or after 8 PM."
The voice came soft as candlelight:
"And yet, here you are. Talking to yourself in a house full of the dead."
She yelped, spinning around. No one was there.
"Okay," she said to the empty room, "either I'm losing my mind, or the dead have great comedic timing."
"Why not both?"
She gasped. The voice came from the mirror again. The towel had fallen. The surface shimmered, and within it, a face began to form — pale, with tousled hair and mischievous eyes.
"Julian Mortimer," the reflection said with a courteous bow. "At your service. And yours appears to be a rather tragic one."
Lena's jaw dropped. "You're… my ancestor?"
"Distantly. Though I prefer 'resident ghost' to 'family disappointment.' The former sounds more… purposeful."
She blinked. "Okay, so you're the guy who lived here before me. What, you died of embarrassment?"
"Murder, actually. Though embarrassment followed closely after."
"Oh, that's… great dinner conversation."
"I haven't dined since 1893. Unless you count jealousy as sustenance."
She folded her arms. "You're jealous of the morgue guy."
"Graves," he said, voice dripping with disdain. "An ironic name, surely. He smells of formaldehyde and bad intentions."
"And you smell like dust and bad Wi-Fi."
The mirror flickered, and for an instant, his smirk turned sad.
"You shouldn't laugh in this house, Lena. Every laugh feeds it."
"It?"
"You'll see."
The lights went out.
When they came back, the mirror was empty again — her own reflection staring back, pale and shaken.
Lena whispered to herself, "I really need stronger coffee."
Outside, across the street, a single light glowed in the funeral home window. A tall figure stood there, watching the manor. Watching her.
Eli Graves lifted his hand in a slow, deliberate wave — neither greeting nor warning.
The wind howled through the broken shutters, and the house whispered back with a laugh that didn't sound entirely human.