The Mirror in the Attic

They told her never to open the attic.

So she did.

It was a stormy night when 26-year-old Anaya returned to her grandmother’s abandoned home in the hills of Murree. Her grandmother, once a famous painter, had passed away two years ago, and no one had touched the place since. Anaya had inherited it but never had the courage to visit—until now.

The moment she entered, it felt like time had frozen. The dusty furniture, cracked paintings, and moth-eaten curtains whispered forgotten memories. But there was one door that stood out—a tall, blackened wooden door at the far end of the hallway. The attic.

Growing up, her grandmother had one strict rule: “Never go into the attic. Never.”

When Anaya would ask why, her grandmother’s eyes would cloud. “Some mirrors don’t show reflections. They show truths.”

---

Anaya had forgotten that sentence until now.

The door creaked as she approached, as though even the wood remembered it hadn’t been touched in decades. Her hand trembled on the rusted doorknob. Thunder cracked outside. And she turned it.

The attic was cold—unnaturally cold.

It was full of canvases. Half-finished paintings lined the walls, depicting surreal, almost haunting images: a crying child with no face, a man staring into a cracked mirror, a forest on fire, but the flames were blue. In the center stood an antique mirror, at least seven feet tall, covered in a thick velvet cloth.

Anaya approached it slowly, heart racing. She felt as if the mirror was watching her.

She removed the cloth.

There was no reflection.

Instead, the mirror showed a hallway. Not the attic, not her, but a hallway lined with black-and-white portraits. At the end stood a door, and on it was etched a name: "Anaya."

She staggered back.

“Just a trick of the light,” she whispered.

But then—her own voice replied from the mirror:

“You were never supposed to come here.”

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Panic rose in her throat. She looked again—now the mirror showed her standing, just like before, only this time, her reflection was smiling.

But she wasn’t.

She backed away. Her phone had no signal. The lights flickered, and a cold wind blew through the attic, though no window was open.

She ran down to the living room and called her childhood friend, Zeeshan, who now lived nearby.

When he arrived, he found Anaya curled in a corner, pale and trembling.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he joked, then noticed the seriousness in her eyes.

“There’s something in that attic,” she whispered. “Something... wrong.”

He, skeptical but curious, went up.

---

Ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

No sound. No return.

Anaya couldn’t take it anymore. She went back upstairs, trembling.

The attic was empty.

No Zeeshan. No mirror. Just cobwebs and canvases.

Only one thing remained where the mirror once stood—a painting.

Of her.

Standing in the attic.

Alone.

---

The police found no trace of Zeeshan. No mirror. No evidence he was ever there.

But every night since, at exactly 2:13 AM, Anaya hears footsteps in the attic. And sometimes, laughter—her own voice, echoing from above.

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The Secret Behind the Mirror

Two months later, Anaya returned to the attic.

Determined to uncover the truth, she looked through old diaries her grandmother had kept. In one entry, dated 1972, it read:

> "The mirror is not just glass—it’s a doorway. A punishment. A prison. I made a mistake. I painted it into existence. I thought I could trap the truth... but I trapped myself. If you see this, child, never stand in front of it alone."

Another page showed a sketch of the same mirror, with symbols etched around the frame. Below it was a note:

“It reflects not what you are—but what you fear to become.”

Anaya, tears in her eyes, realized the truth:

Her grandmother hadn’t just been a painter. She had created that mirror using some forgotten art—possibly a curse, possibly something darker.

And now, it was in her blood.

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The Final Choice

That night, Anaya returned to the attic one last time. She brought an axe, matches, and her grandmother’s diary.

The mirror was back.

This time, it didn’t hide.

Her reflection stared at her, mouth open in a silent scream. Images flickered—Zeeshan trapped in a grey room, pounding on invisible walls. Her grandmother, painting endlessly, crying as she did. And herself—standing in the attic, aged and lifeless, repeating the cycle.

She raised the axe. But the mirror spoke.

“Break me, and you break yourself.”

She hesitated. The wind grew stronger. Her own voice in her head whispered doubts:

What if it’s true? What if the mirror is part of me?

She made her decision.

With one final scream, she smashed the mirror.

It shattered into a thousand pieces, each shard showing a different face—a different fate. Fire erupted from the cracks of the attic floor. The walls screamed. The house groaned like it was dying.

She lit the match and dropped it on the wooden floor.

As flames consumed the attic, Anaya ran.

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Epilogue

The house was gone by morning.

The police found nothing but ashes. No bodies, no paintings, no mirror.

Anaya moved far away. Tried to forget.

But she never could.

Because in every mirror she passed,

For a second—just a second—

She never saw her reflection.

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