The Silent Witness

The Silent Witness

The wind howled through the abandoned house on Willow Lane, rattling the broken window panes and carrying whispers of the past. The town of Greyford had long forgotten the old Mercer house, letting it crumble under the weight of time. But tonight, its silence was deceptive. Tonight, it bore witness once again.

Detective Claire Hargrove pulled her coat tighter around her as she stepped onto the creaking porch. The beam of her flashlight cut through the darkness, illuminating the peeling wallpaper and dust-laden furniture. She had seen her share of crime scenes, but this one felt different—charged, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

"Dispatch, this is Detective Hargrove. I'm at the Mercer property. Proceeding to investigate the reported disturbance."

The radio crackled in response, but the static seemed to dissolve into the eerie quiet. Claire moved cautiously, the floor groaning under her weight. The house was supposed to be empty. Yet, footprints marred the dust on the floor—fresh ones.

She followed them down the hall, past faded family portraits whose eyes seemed to follow her every move. They led her to a room at the end of the corridor. The door, slightly ajar, creaked as she nudged it open. The room was bathed in moonlight streaming through the broken windows, casting long shadows.

On the floor lay a man, his lifeless eyes staring at the cracked ceiling. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and sticky. Claire knelt beside the body, scanning for any clues. No signs of struggle, no murder weapon in sight.

But something else caught her eye—an old mirror leaning against the far wall. Its surface was fogged, as if someone had just breathed on it. Scrawled across the glass in a shaky hand were the words: "It sees everything."

Claire's breath caught. She turned, half-expecting to find someone standing behind her. But the room was empty.

She called for backup, but deep down, she knew this case wouldn't be solved by standard procedures. The Mercer house had a history—a tragic one. Decades ago, the Mercer family had vanished without a trace. Some said it was murder, others whispered of curses. But no one had dared to investigate.

Until now.

As Claire waited, the mirror seemed to shimmer slightly. Drawn to it, she stepped closer. Her reflection stared back—but then it smiled.

Claire froze. She hadn't moved. Yet her reflection had.

Suddenly, the temperature dropped. Her breath became visible in the cold air. She tried to step back, but her feet felt rooted to the spot. In the mirror, shadows began to swirl, forming shapes—faces twisted in agony, hands pressed against the glass as if trying to escape.

Then, a whisper.

"Help us."

Claire stumbled back, heart pounding. The mirror was still now, reflecting only her pale face. But she couldn't shake the feeling that something had been watching her—waiting.

Backup arrived minutes later, but the mirror's message had vanished. No fingerprints, no sign of anyone else. Just the corpse and the empty house.

Days turned into weeks, and the investigation yielded nothing. The man was identified as Daniel Crowe, a local historian researching the Mercers. His notes, recovered from his office, spoke of the mirror—a family heirloom rumored to trap souls.

Claire knew the truth. The Mercer house wasn't empty. It never had been.

And the mirror?

It was still watching.

Waiting for its next witness.