Through the Silvering GlassJanet knew the mirror was special when she saw it—an ornate Victorian piece, its silvering slightly tarnished, the frame carved with twisting vines. The antique shop owner had hesitated, his fingers lingering on the glass as if reluctant to let go. But Janet had insisted, and now it hung in her bedroom.
By day, it reflected the room perfectly. But at night—
The first time it happened, she woke to moonlight pooling on the floor and glanced at the mirror. Her breath caught. The reflection wasn’t hers. Instead, a woman in a high-necked dress stood there, her palms pressed against the glass, her mouth moving soundlessly. Janet stumbled back, and the image vanished.
She told herself it was a trick of the light. But the next night, the woman returned—closer this time, her dark eyes wide with desperation.
Research led Janet to the Blackwood family. Eleanor Blackwood, their youngest daughter, had vanished in 1847 after dabbling in séances and mirror scrying. The local papers whispered of occult practices, of a girl who stared too long into reflections.
Janet’s blood ran cold. Eleanor hadn’t disappeared. She’d been trapped.
That night, Janet lit candles and faced the mirror. “Eleanor?” she whispered.
The woman’s face appeared instantly, her hands clawing at the glass. Behind her, the reflection of Janet’s room was distorted—bookshelves mirrored backward, the writing on her desk reversed. A prison of reflections.
“I’ll help you,” Janet promised.
Eleanor’s lips curled into something like a smile. Then, slowly, she extended her hand—not toward the glass, but through it.
Janet gasped as cold fingers brushed hers. The room tilted. The candles flickered—except in the mirror, where they burned unnaturally still.
A realization slithered into Janet’s mind: mirrors worked both ways.
Eleanor’s grip tightened. She wasn’t trying to escape.
She was pulling Janet in.
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Through the Silvering Glass Janet knew the mirror was special when she saw it—an ornate Victorian piece, its silvering slightly tarnished, the frame carved with twisting vines. The antique shop owner had hesitated, his fingers lingering on the glass as if reluctant to let go. But Janet had insisted, and now it hung in her bedroom.
By day, it reflected the room perfectly. But at night—
The first time it happened, she woke to moonlight pooling on the floor and glanced at the mirror. Her breath caught. The reflection wasn’t hers. Instead, a woman in a high-necked dress stood there, her palms pressed against the glass, her mouth moving soundlessly. Janet stumbled back, and the image vanished.
She told herself it was a trick of the light. But the next night, the woman returned—closer this time, her dark eyes wide with desperation.
Research led Janet to the Blackwood family. Eleanor Blackwood, their youngest daughter, had vanished in 1847 after dabbling in séances and mirror scrying. The local papers whispered of occult practices, of a girl who stared too long into reflections.
Janet’s blood ran cold. Eleanor hadn’t disappeared. She’d been trapped.
That night, Janet lit candles and faced the mirror. “Eleanor?” she whispered.
The woman’s face appeared instantly, her hands clawing at the glass. Behind her, the reflection of Janet’s room was distorted—bookshelves mirrored backward, the writing on her desk reversed. A prison of reflections.
“I’ll help you,” Janet promised.
Eleanor’s lips curled into something like a smile. Then, slowly, she extended her hand—not toward the glass, but through it.
Janet gasped as cold fingers brushed hers. The room tilted. The candles flickered—except in the mirror, where they burned unnaturally still.
A realization slithered into Janet’s mind: mirrors worked both ways.
Eleanor’s grip tightened. She wasn’t trying to escape.
She was pulling Janet in.