The mirror in the east hallway had begun to hum.
Not loud. Not even musical. But constant. Like pressure trapped in the walls, a tuning fork just beneath the surface of the glass.
It started the night after the letter.
The letter that no one else could see.
The letter signed: The Stage Manager.
Since then, Laurel House had changed again. Not violently. Subtly.
The lights still flickered, but now they flickered in patterns.
The attic door stayed closed, but now it cast two shadows.
And the mirror? It reflected things I hadn't done yet.
---
I tested it once.
I stood still.
Raised my hand.
My reflection smiled first.
Not big. Not wild. Just a half-tilt grin.
Not mine.
The hum grew louder.
I looked behind me.
The hallway was empty.
But the mirror? The mirror was crowded.
---
The next morning, Mom had rearranged the furniture.
She said the "light felt off."
The kitchen table was now pressed against the southern wall. The couch faced away from the fireplace.
Every chair pointed at a different mirror.
"I think they're watching us," she said calmly, as if announcing rain.
I didn't disagree.
---
That night, I returned to the mirror hallway with a journal, a stopwatch, and a flashlight.
I gave myself thirteen minutes.
At minute one, the mirror looked normal.
At minute three, the reflection began to lag.
By minute five, the reflection of the hallway extended farther than it should've. It showed doors that didn't exist.
Minute eight: I blinked.
The reflection did not.
Minute nine: It whispered.
Just one word.
> "Closer."
---
The flashlight dimmed at minute ten.
I reached out and touched the glass.
It felt like skin.
Warm.
Minute eleven: My reflection leaned forward.
Mouth open. Whispering something faster now.
I couldn't hear it. But I could feel it.
Minute twelve: A knock.
From the inside.
Minute thirteen: I saw her.
> Mom.
In the mirror.
Standing behind me.
But when I turned—
No one.
---
The flashlight died.
The hallway bulb buzzed.
The hum turned into breathing.
And I dropped the journal.
I ran.
---
When I returned the next day, the mirror had changed.
Not cracked.
Just… moved.
It now faced the stairs.
And taped to the glass was a yellowed envelope.
Inside:
> Memorandum #2: Reflection is rehearsal. Rehearsal is obedience. The mirror is your cue partner. Do not miss your mark.
Signed again:
—The Stage Manager
---
That's when I understood:
The mirror wasn't showing me.
It was showing the version of me that Laurel House wanted to create.
The version that obeyed.
And every night I watched it move a little faster.
Blink a little sooner.
Smile a little longer.
It was learning how to replace me.
---
Mom was gone the next morning.
Not missing.
Just… not her.
She was walking the halls, mumbling lines like she was memorizing a script.
> "Lights at thirteen, mirrors rehearse, attic waits its cue…"
She didn't eat. She didn't sleep. She just followed the mirrors.
And when I called her name, she said:
> "That role's been cast already."
---
I tried to break one of the mirrors.
Hammer. Smash.
The glass shattered.
But the reflection didn't.
It stayed suspended, like the memory of glass.
Still grinning.
And now?
Now it knocks.
Every night.
Exactly at 3:13 AM.
One knock for every rule I haven't broken.
Thirteen rules.
Only one matters:
> Don't let the mirror in.
---
But that night, the mirror didn't knock.
It opened.
And my reflection stepped out.