The Whispering Mirror

In a small, fog-covered village nestled at the edge of Blackwood Forest, there was a legend about an old mirror locked away in the attic of a crumbling manor house. The house had belonged to the Grayson family, who mysteriously vanished one night over a century ago.

No one dared to enter the manor—no one except 17-year-old Eliza.

Eliza had recently moved to the village with her father after her mother passed away. Grieving and curious, she often wandered alone. The villagers warned her, especially about the Grayson place.

“They say the mirror whispers,” the old grocer muttered once. “And if you listen too long… it takes something from you.”

Eliza didn’t believe in such things. One gray afternoon, driven by boredom and a strange pull she couldn’t explain, she snuck through the overgrown gate of the Grayson manor. The wind howled as the door creaked open under her hand.

The house smelled of damp wood and rot. Dust blanketed every surface. Her flashlight flickered as she climbed the stairs, cobwebs brushing her face. She found the attic door—its handle ice-cold.

She hesitated. Then pushed it open.

The attic was cluttered with broken furniture and old trunks. At the far end stood a tall, ornate mirror, its surface dark and cloudy, its golden frame carved with twisted faces.

She stepped closer.

For a moment, all was silent. Then she heard it.

A whisper.

“Eliiiizaaa…”

She spun around. No one.

Her breath quickened. She stared into the mirror. At first, she saw only her reflection. Then—it smiled.

But she hadn’t.

Eliza jumped back, heart pounding.

The reflection tilted its head. Her own head remained still.

Then it whispered again. “Don’t be afraid. I can help you… bring her back.”

Eliza froze.

Her mother. Her beautiful, kind mother, who had died so suddenly. She stared into the mirror.

“You… can bring her back?” she asked, trembling.

The reflection nodded.

“All I need… is a piece of you.”

Eliza felt her skin crawl. “What do you mean?”

But the reflection only smiled wider, its eyes growing darker.

A sharp pain sliced through her hand. She looked down—blood trickled from a cut that hadn’t been there before.

She backed away. The attic grew colder. The whispers grew louder. Now they weren’t just from the mirror—they were all around her. Echoing. Chanting.

“Eliza… Eliza… give us more…”

Panicked, she turned and fled, tripping down the stairs, crashing through the front door into the cold, gray evening. She didn’t stop running until she was back home, where her father found her curled up on the porch, pale and shaking.

That night, she dreamed of the mirror. Of her reflection crawling out of it, inch by inch, grinning with blackened teeth and blood-red eyes.

She woke screaming.

Days passed. But something was wrong. Every mirror she looked into showed… glitches. Her reflection lagged behind. Smiled when she didn’t. Sometimes it mouthed words she didn’t say.

Her father noticed her odd behavior. “You’re not sleeping. Maybe we should leave this place,” he said gently.

But it was too late.

One evening, Eliza stood brushing her teeth. She glanced up. Her reflection stood still.

Then… it blinked.

And stepped out.

She screamed as the figure grabbed her, dragging her toward the glass. Her father burst in, but there was no Eliza—just a quiet, empty bathroom. The mirror, now perfectly still, reflected only him.

The villagers whispered that she had run away. But the old grocer shook his head. “That house… it took her, like it did the Graysons.”

And in the attic, the mirror stood untouched.

Waiting.

Sometimes, on moonless nights, it whispers a name.

“Eliza…”

Moral of the Story:

Some doors—and mirrors—are better left unopened. Curiosity can lead to consequences you can't escape.