The Mirror in the Tower

No one really knows when the tower first appeared in Corwell. Some say it was always there, a part of the land before the town even had a name. Others believe it rose overnight, summoned by forgotten whispers and buried sins. But what everyone agrees on is this: the bell tower has never rung. Not once. Not in anyone’s memory. And after sunset, no one dares speak its name aloud.

Corwell is the kind of town that time forgot—tucked away at the edge of thick woods, population barely scratching three hundred. Most homes are cracked with age, their wooden bones creaking under the weight of silence. A few families remain, too old to leave or too stubborn to care. But they all share a quiet fear, and it always points to the tower.

Eleanor Rowe arrived on a drizzly Thursday. A curious young historian from the city, she was drawn to forgotten towns and their half-remembered myths. Corwell, with its eerie charm and lack of digital footprint, seemed perfect. She stayed at the only inn—an aging structure run by a widow who rarely spoke unless asked twice.

At the local library, Eleanor sifted through dusty records, yellowed newspapers, and brittle pages of forgotten journals. She found references to the town’s founding, to its brief mining boom, even to a flood that nearly wiped it out in 1912. But not a single line about the bell tower. No sketches, no mentions, no photographs. Nothing.

Naturally, this made her obsession grow.

When she asked the librarian, a frail man with trembling hands, about the tower, he went still. Then, in a voice low enough to barely hear, he said, “You don’t go near it. Not after dusk. It remembers.”

That was all.

That night, Eleanor couldn’t sleep. Her thoughts spun in feverish loops. She’d seen the top of the tower from afar—its sharp silhouette rising beyond the trees, a jagged tooth in the sky. It called to her in a way she couldn’t explain.

At precisely 3:14 AM, under a pale crescent moon, she grabbed her notebook, flashlight, and an old Nikon camera. Wrapping herself in a wool coat, she slipped past the sleeping town and into the woods.

The path was wild, overgrown, and silent. Trees stood like sentinels, their branches clawing the sky. It took nearly an hour, but eventually, the trees parted.

There it was.

The bell tower stood tall and lonely, nearly seventy feet of blackened stone. Time had not been kind to it—ivy strangled the walls, the bricks chipped and crumbling. There was no door, only a shattered archway leading into shadow.

Inside, the air was thick and cold, heavy with stillness. Eleanor’s footsteps echoed unnaturally loud. Dust danced in the flashlight’s beam like drifting spirits. She began to climb.

The spiral staircase was narrow and steep. She counted each step out of habit: 23… 57… 104… 138… 154…

Too many steps. Far more than the tower’s height could hold. The air grew thinner, colder. Her flashlight flickered once.

Finally, she reached the top. But there was no bell. Just an old, tall mirror standing alone in the center.

It was beautiful in an unsettling way. The frame was carved black wood, aged but untouched by dust. And the glass… it shimmered strangely, like it wasn’t entirely solid.

Eleanor approached, camera raised. She snapped a photo, but the flash revealed something odd.

Her reflection wasn’t in sync.

It blinked a moment late. Tilted its head the wrong way. And then… it smiled.

She hadn’t.

Heart pounding, she stepped back. But the mirror rippled—like a disturbed pond. Her reflection stepped forward. Same face. Same coat. But the eyes—black, endless, void.

Before Eleanor could run, the thing lunged and shoved her.

She fell.

Down, endlessly down—but she never hit the ground.

Instead, she awoke in a place that looked like the tower… but wasn’t. The light was dim, colors dulled, sound muted. And the mirror… now stood behind her.

She screamed. Pounded on the glass. But outside, the reflection—now wearing her skin—just smiled, turned, and left.

The next morning, “Eleanor” was seen in town. Smiling. Calm. She packed her bags, thanked the innkeeper, and caught the morning bus.

But she never made it home.

No calls. No emails. Her apartment remained untouched.

And in Corwell, the tower stands quiet still. But sometimes, when the wind dies and the trees go still, locals say they hear a single bell chime.

Just once.

No one knows who hears it next.

No one wants to find out.