The first thing Mara noticed when she entered the old house was the silence. It wasn't the peaceful kind — it was the kind that pressed against your ears, thick and listening.
She had come to the village of Wraithmore on a photography assignment — to document the last standing Victorian homes before the town was swallowed by the new highway. The locals had warned her not to go near the Valen Estate, but warnings were like smoke: they disappeared once curiosity took flame.
Inside, dust danced like pale spirits in the shaft of her flashlight. The grand staircase had collapsed halfway up, and the wallpaper peeled like old skin. Everything smelled of forgotten rain.
Then she found the room.
It was circular, with a cracked chandelier dangling like a throat cut open. The walls were lined entirely with mirrors — some tall, some broken, some fogged — all different styles, all facing inward. In the center stood a single wooden chair. On it lay a black fascinator — a small, elegant hat, crowned with a single feather that gleamed faintly even in the dark.
Something about it made her skin prickle.
She raised her camera. The flash went off — a brief, sterile light — and when it did, she saw movement.
Her reflection didn't match her pose.
Mara froze, her breath a shard of ice. The reflection of herself in the nearest mirror tilted its head slowly, though she hadn't moved. Its eyes — her eyes — shimmered faintly with something wet and black.
Another flash.
Now, every reflection around the room was staring directly at her.
She stumbled back, dropping her camera. It hit the floor with a crack. The mirrors began to breathe — faint fog blossoming across their surfaces like sighs.
And then, from one of them — the largest — a hand pressed against the glass from the other side.
It was slender, pale, and it wore the fascinator.
Mara backed toward the door, heart hammering. But when she turned, the doorway was gone — only another mirror stood there, showing her a version of herself standing perfectly still, wearing the black fascinator and smiling faintly.
Her real reflection reached out a hand, touching the cold glass — and the other her took her place.
When the villagers came days later, all they found in the mirror room was a camera, its last photo showing a woman sitting on the chair — elegant, perfect, eyes entirely black, and the fascinator perfectly in place.