There was no applause when the last mirror shattered.
Just silence.
Not the kind that rests. The kind that hovers.
A silence that watches.
The lights of Laurel House had finally died. Every room dimmed, every corner swallowed by the kind of dark that doesn't need explanation—only surrender.
But I wasn't surrendering.
Not anymore.
---
The shards of the mirror glittered on the floor like teeth. Some still trembled. One shard showed my face. The other… his. The double. The reflection.
We stared at each other from fractured glass.
He was still grinning.
But the smile looked thinner now.
Forced.
Cracked.
Just like the script.
---
I walked. Slowly.
No lights. No sounds. No cues. The house didn't shift anymore. It pulsed. Like a beast that had been wounded but refused to bleed.
Each step echoed, unwelcomed.
I passed the dining room.
The table was set—but the plates were cracked, the candles melted into the tablecloth, the chairs all facing away from the table.
Stage destroyed.
Scene abandoned.
I was off-script.
And the house didn't know what to do with me.
---
That's when the walls started breathing.
Not metaphorically.
They inhaled.
Exhaled.
Creaked and groaned as if made of lungs instead of wood.
Whispers slithered through the vents.
> "Return to cue…"
> "The role demands you…"
> "Finish your act…"
I screamed into the dark:
> "I'm not part of the show!"
And for the first time, something laughed.
Not the house. Not the double.
Something deeper.
Something below.
---
The floor cracked.
I fell through again.
But this time, I chose not to land.
I kicked. Swam through the dark.
Dragged myself through theater curtains made of skin, through hallways made of faces stitched into wallpaper.
Past stage directions written in blood.
Until I reached the room I feared the most.
The nursery.
---
It had never appeared before.
Now it was waiting.
One crib.
One mobile made of broken bulbs.
One mirror.
But this one was different.
It showed no reflection.
Just a name.
Mine.
Etched backwards.
Bleeding slowly across the glass like veins.
> K.E.L.I.A.N.
I hadn't heard that name in years.
My real name.
Before the stage. Before the script.
Before Laurel House began replacing me.
---
I stepped forward. Touched the mirror.
A jolt.
Memories flooded back like rotwater through the floorboards.
I remembered.
I was seven.
This house had never belonged to Aunt Miriam.
It had always been mine.
Inherited not by blood—but by ritual.
By casting.
I had been chosen then. Placed in the role.
The first script had been whispered to me by the mirror itself.
And I had followed it like a good little actor.
---
Until now.
Now I was the wrong version.
Corrupted by resistance.
Off-cue.
And the house wanted to erase me.
Like it had erased the others.
I looked around.
The nursery wallpaper was made of faces.
Children.
All versions of me.
One for every failed run of the show.
Eyes sewn shut.
Mouths open in silent screams.
No curtain call.
No encore.
Just storage.
---
But I was still standing.
Still remembering.
And I had something the house hadn't planned for.
A scene it hadn't written.
Me.
The real me.
Flawed.
Angry.
Free.
---
The double appeared behind me.
In the reflection of the crib.
Face calm. Voice rehearsed:
> "It's time to sleep now."
I turned.
> "No. It's time to wake up."
And I grabbed the mirror.
Raised it.
Slammed it against the floor.
The house screamed.
The walls buckled.
The double fell back, flickering like static.
No stage.
No role.
Just me.
Just silence.
Real silence.
---
I opened my eyes.
It was morning.
Laurel House stood still.
Empty.
The mirrors were gone.
So was the script.
And so was… Mom.
Only one thing left behind:
A final letter.
Folded. Sealed. No wax.
Just three words:
> "No Curtain Call."
I stepped outside.
The sun hit my face.
And for the first time in weeks—or years—I felt like no one.
Not a character.
Not a role.
Just a person.
It was terrifying.
And beautiful.
I never looked back.
Laurel House didn't burn.
It didn't collapse.
It simply waited.
For the next reader.
The next actor.
The next cue.
Because stories like this?
They never end.
They just wait for someone to walk through the door…
…And forget they're not supposed to follow the light.