The lightbulb overhead popped.
Glass shards rained down in tiny sparks, plunging the room into dim twilight. Madison yelped, covering her head, while Georgina's breath snagged in her throat. The silence that followed was heavier than the dark—thick, suffocating, as though the walls themselves leaned closer to listen.
"Great," Madison muttered, her voice unsteady. "First the smell, then the noises, now exploding lights? What the hell is going on here, Georgina?"
Georgina clutched the photograph tighter. Her knuckles went white, but her eyes stayed locked on the mirror. The surface, cracked now from a shard that had ricocheted into it, distorted their reflections into grotesque doubles—Madison's face stretched too long, her own eyes blackened shadows.
She wanted to tell Madison the truth, but how could she? That their family had been hiding corpses that weren't corpses, mothers that weren't dead, fathers who'd orchestrated disappearances? That she'd been inside another body just yesterday? The words would come out sounding insane.
So she said the only thing she could: "It's nothing. Just… bad wiring."
Madison turned, narrowing her eyes. "You expect me to believe that?"
Before Georgina could answer, there was movement in the hallway. A shadow gliding past—silent, deliberate. Both women froze.
Madison whispered, "Was that… your mom?"
Georgina's pulse hammered so hard it rattled her ribs. She opened her mouth to say she didn't know—because she truly didn't—but before the words came, the voice returned. Low. Male. Too close.
"She knows."
Madison gasped, eyes snapping wide. "You heard it too?"
The floor creaked.
They turned as one toward the hallway. The shadow was there again—long, impossibly thin, stretched like it belonged to someone taller than the ceiling should allow. It lingered a moment, then slid out of sight, melting into the dark.
Georgina's breath came ragged. Instinct drove her to the closet again. She yanked the door open—empty. No mother. No coats disturbed. Nothing but the faint, lingering smell of old perfume.
"Georgina," Madison hissed, "what the hell is in this house?"
"I don't—" She cut herself off. She did know. At least, part of her did. That mirror. That rush of light. That impossible reflection standing where no one stood. She and Ethan had touched something… something that wasn't done with them yet.
The photograph trembled in her hand, and she glanced down at it. Her mother's face smiled faintly from the faded image, her arms wrapped protectively around infant Georgina. The ink on the back seemed fresher now, as though it had only just been scrawled.
"I never left you."
Madison caught sight of the photo and snatched it. "Where did you get this?"
"It was—" Georgina's throat closed. "It was just here."
"That's impossible," Madison snapped. "Dad burned every picture of her. Every single one."
Georgina froze. "What did you just say?"
Madison blinked, realizing she'd slipped. She looked away, jaw tightening.
"You knew?" Georgina's voice sharpened. "You knew she wasn't dead."
"No, I—" Madison faltered, her usual confidence slipping like a mask too heavy to hold. "It's complicated."
"Complicated?!" Georgina's voice cracked. "My mother was alive this whole time! I buried someone else in her place! And you call that complicated?"
Madison didn't answer. Her silence was louder than any denial.
And then—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound came again, but this time not from the door. From the mirror.
Both women snapped their heads toward it. The cracks in the glass seemed to pulse, faintly glowing. Something pressed against the other side—a hand, pale and long-fingered, pushing outward as though testing the barrier.
Madison screamed. "Nope. Nope. I'm out." She grabbed her purse off the sofa and bolted toward the door.
"Madison, wait!" Georgina ran after her, but by the time she reached the hallway, Madison was gone—the apartment door left wide open, swinging slightly in the draft.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Georgina turned slowly back toward the mirror. The hand was gone. The cracks were still.
And then she heard it—her mother's voice. Not outside the closet, not down the hall, but inside her head.
"They're watching. Don't trust her. Don't trust anyone."
Georgina staggered, clutching her temples. "Where are you?" she whispered.
The mirror rippled. And this time, the reflection that surfaced wasn't her own.
It was Ethan.
His face, pale and terrified, staring at her from inside the glass. His lips moved silently. Pleading. His hands pounded against the inside, the way a drowning man pounds against ice.
"No," Georgina whispered, tears filling her eyes. "No, you're out. You're free. I saw you—"
But the Ethan in the mirror shook his head violently. His mouth formed the words, over and over.
Not me. Not me.
Her breath caught in her throat. If that wasn't Ethan—then who had come out of the mirror with her?
The room tilted. The air grew colder. And in the far corner of the bedroom, just visible in the sliver of light, something began to crawl out of the shadow—long limbs first, then a head that bent too far, its face obscured but smiling.
Georgina stumbled back, clutching the photograph to her chest. The whisper filled the air again, louder now, circling her.
"She knows. She knows. She knows."
The lightbulb flickered once, twice—then died completely.
And Georgina was swallowed by the dark.