The second night in the house was colder than the first not in temperature, but in feeling. The air felt heavier, almost like it was watching.
Joy wandered through the upstairs hallway, the dim bulbs casting weak shadows across the peeling wallpaper. Her parents were downstairs, arguing softly about the unpacking, unaware of the chill creeping through their daughter's room.
She wasn't sure what drew her to the far wall of her bedroom, but something did. A whisper in her thoughts. A gentle pull beneath the floorboards.
It was just instinct at first an odd lump in the old rug near her bed. She pulled it aside, revealing warped wooden planks. One creaked under her foot differently than the others. Curious, Joy crouched down and pried it up.
Inside the shallow hollow was a small wooden box, aged with time and tied shut with a brittle ribbon. The box smelled faintly of dust and old perfume. She opened it slowly, half-expecting a spider to crawl out.
Instead, there was a diary.
The cover was faded blue, soft to the touch, like it had once belonged to a child. Inside, pages had yellowed, and the writing was neat at first,loops and curves of someone young but precise.
"Elsie Harrow. April, 1964."
Joy's breath caught in her throat.
The entries began simply enough. Elsie had moved into the house with her parents, just like Joy. She complained about being bored, about the strange quiet of the village, about the coldness of the walls.
Then the entries darkened.
"They whisper at night now. I thought it was my imagination. It isn't."
"The mirrors don't reflect right. There are more corners in the reflection than in the room."
"I saw someone standing behind me. But only in the mirror."
The final entry was smeared and panicked, the letters uneven and shaky:
"Never look at them through mirrors."
"They hate to be seen."
Joy slammed the book shut. Her hands trembled slightly.
That night, sleep did not come easily.
She tossed and turned, the diary's warnings replaying in her head. Every mirror in the house had been covered when they moved in. Her parents said it was "just the old owners being weird." They'd uncovered most of them by now, except for the bathroom mirror, still dusty and untouched.
Drawn by something she couldn't name, Joy crept down the hallway. The house was silent. Even the wind had stopped. The silence was so thick it almost hummed.
She opened the bathroom door.
The mirror waited.
Dust covered the glass, but she could still see her reflection. For a moment, it was only her. Pale face, wild dark curls, tired eyes.
Then, movement.
She froze.
In the mirror's reflection, someone was standing behind her.
Tall. Shadowy. Face hidden in black. Its fingers were long, too long, stretching like smoke. It didn't move, but it was watching.
Joy whipped around.
Nothing. Just the hallway.
Heart pounding, she looked back at the mirror. The figure was ...closer now. Right behind her reflection. And the eyes empty, endless voids.
A thin crack split the glass, starting from the corner and reaching downward like a lightning bolt.
Joy screamed.
Footsteps rushed up the stairs. Her parents burst into the hallway just as she stumbled out of the bathroom.
"There was someone,behind me!" she gasped.
"There's no one there," her dad said, checking the room. "The mirror just cracked. These old things aren't made to last."
They didn't see the whisper of breath on the mirror's surface.
They didn't hear the faint voice as they turned off the light:
"JOY....HONOUR JOY..."