The house didn't feel empty — it felt like it was waiting.
Elara stood at the edge of the porch, her suitcase resting beside her. The towering oak trees surrounding the house swayed in a wind she couldn't feel. Their bare limbs scratched against the slate-gray sky like fingers clawing for something just out of reach. Even the birds seemed to avoid the place. There was no sound—just stillness.
The cab that brought them had already disappeared down the winding road, kicking up a trail of dust. There was no turning back now.
She stared up at the old Victorian house — three stories, peeling white paint, crooked shutters. Time had not been kind to it, and yet it stood tall, as if daring the world to touch it. The kind of house people whispered about in town but never went near.
She hadn't seen it since she was seven.
"Elara!" her mom called from the trunk of the car, juggling grocery bags and a backpack. "Grab something, please."
She nodded but didn't move. Her eyes were fixed on the *attic window* — that high, narrow pane of glass beneath the steep gable roof. A shadow moved across it, quick and silent, and then… nothing.
She blinked.
It was probably just the wind, she told herself. Or maybe a curtain.
But she knew this house.
And she knew that in this house… *nothing was ever just the wind.*
"Elara," her mother said again, more firmly.
She finally turned and grabbed a box from the back seat. "Coming."
They entered through the front door, and the smell hit her immediately — old wood, lavender, and something else. Something colder. Not rotten, not mold. It was the scent of *stillness*. Like the house had been holding its breath for years.
Inside, the hallway was narrow and dark, lined with faded wallpaper and too many *mirrors*. They were hung at every turn — some clean, some cracked, some covered with lace cloths that had yellowed with age. Her grandmother had insisted on having one in every hallway.
"She said they were protection," Elara's mom murmured, almost like reading her mind. "Said they 'kept the spirits from getting too close.'" Elara frowned*. She remembered that. She remembered her grandmother's voice, stern but soft: *"Mirrors reflect more than your face, little star. They reflect truths, lies… sometimes even souls."*
She stepped closer to one of the uncovered mirrors — an oval one with a bronze frame tarnished by time. Her reflection stared back, but… something was off.
It was subtle.
The girl in the mirror wore the same worn sneakers. The same oversized hoodie. The same long black braid slung over her shoulder. But her *expression* wasn't quite right.
Her lips were curled, ever so slightly, in a smirk. Her eyes… sharper. More knowing.
Elara stepped back.
Her heart thumped.
Her mother was already in the kitchen, mumbling to herself about needing to restock the fridge. Elara didn't want to follow yet. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the mirror.
The hallway felt colder now.
And then, as she turned to finally walk away, it came.
A voice.
Soft. Whispy. Too close.
*"You've come back…"*
She froze mid-step.
It hadn't come from behind her.
It hadn't come from the kitchen.
It had come from *the mirror.*
She turned slowly.
The reflection stared back at her — normal now. Still. Innocent.
But she knew what she heard.
"Elara?" her mom called again. "Come on, baby. This place gives me the creeps."
"You're not the only one," Elara whispered under her breath.
But the mirror didn't answer this time.
It just sat there, waiting.
*End of Chapter One*