chapter 13

Chapter 13: They Remember in the Mirrors

The mirror didn't stop after that night.

It watched.

Even when covered.

Even when faced to the wall.

Even when we tried to ignore it.

It remembered.

And it wanted us to remember too.

---

The next morning, we checked out of the motel. The manager didn't ask questions—barely even looked at us. Just pushed the receipt across the desk with trembling hands.

Aaryan noticed the salt lines at the corners of the lobby. The way the bell above the front door had no string attached, yet jingled every time we moved.

It wasn't just the mirror anymore.

This town?

It was awake.

And it was listening.

---

We headed straight for the archives — a crooked little building tucked behind the church, wrapped in vines and old stories. Its wooden sign read:

"Local History & Obituaries."

Subtle.

Inside, dust danced in thick rays of sunlight. A frail woman sat at the reception desk, glasses halfway down her nose, reading something handwritten in blue ink.

She didn't even glance up as we entered.

But the lights flickered.

And the mirror by the entrance?

Cracked — just a hairline split down the middle.

I didn't like that.

Not at all.

---

We didn't know what we were looking for, not exactly.

Records? Maps? Old newspaper clippings?

Answers?

We'd take whatever we could get.

Aaryan was drawn to a back room labeled "Memory Files." I went toward a tall shelf stacked with thick black ledgers, their spines flaking like burnt leaves.

Most of them were dated.

But one caught my eye.

No date.

No name.

Just a deep gash down the leather, like it had been clawed.

I opened it.

Blank pages.

Except one.

Near the middle.

It said:

> "You are not the first to leave the house."

> But no one ever truly leaves.

> It waits in mirrors. And it always rewrites."

I slammed it shut.

And that's when I heard her.

---

"Clever girl," said a voice behind me, smooth as wind through glass. "That book was mine once."

I turned.

A woman stood at the end of the aisle.

Not the librarian.

She was maybe in her late forties. Hair streaked grey, eyes clouded with things no one should ever see. Her hands looked worn, but her posture — stiff. Like someone who hadn't been touched in years and didn't want to be.

Her clothes were simple. Blouse, long skirt, boots. All black. All clean.

Too clean.

Like they weren't real.

She looked straight at me and smiled.

"I see you found the house."

Aaryan appeared behind me. I felt him freeze the moment he saw her.

"Who are you?" he asked.

She ignored him.

Only looked at me.

"I used to be someone," she said softly. "But then I walked into that house. Like you. And came out with only a fraction of her left."

Her hand reached into her coat.

Pulled out a mirror shard.

"Do you know what this is?"

I nodded. "From the Manor."

"No," she whispered. "From me."

And then she pressed it against her skin.

---

At first, nothing happened.

Then the mirror shard lit up.

Not with light — but with motion.

A reflection formed on its surface.

A little girl.

A teenager.

A bride.

A body.

All the same woman.

All the same scream.

"I kept the shard," she whispered, voice breaking. "It's the only thing that reminds me I was real once. Before the house took the rest."

We stared in silence.

Then I asked, "How do we stop it?"

She looked at me sharply. "You don't. That's the trick. The house doesn't die. It moves. It finds a mirror, a door, a thought — and it slips through."

She stepped forward.

The lights in the archive flickered.

"We thought burning it would work. We tried salt, blood, holy water. Nothing held. Because the house…" She trailed off, gaze faraway now. "It isn't a building. It's an idea. A grief too big to forget. A memory too broken to heal."

"Then why are we still alive?" Aaryan asked.

Her face darkened.

"You're not."

---

The moment she said it, her reflection in the nearest window smiled.

But she didn't.

Her real face remained blank.

Still.

But the reflection was laughing.

Eyes wide. Lips stretched too far. Unblinking.

We backed away.

"You're not her," I whispered.

The woman blinked.

Her body cracked.

Literally.

A thin fracture split down her cheek like glass.

A hairline break.

She smiled, and this time, both her real face and the reflection matched.

"You're catching on quick," she hissed. "Good. That'll make the rewriting easier."

Aaryan grabbed my wrist.

We ran.

The doors of the archive slammed behind us.

But we didn't stop until we were blocks away.

---

We hid in an alley behind a laundromat.

I couldn't catch my breath.

My palms were burning.

When I looked down — tiny mirror slivers were forming under my skin. Glittering just beneath the surface.

"She's not just a warning," I gasped. "She's infected."

"They all are," Aaryan whispered. "Anyone who leaves the house carries it."

And then we both said it at once:

"We brought it back."

---

That night, we didn't sleep.

We sat in the same motel, different room. Lights on. Mirror smashed.

Every few minutes, we checked our hands. Our eyes. Our voices.

The town was changing.

People began walking a little too smoothly.

Shadows stretched the wrong way.

Reflections lasted a second too long.

Something was bleeding into the world.

Not fast.

But sure.

Like ink into water.

And in the silence of 2:00 AM, we heard a voice from the hallway.

Not a scream.

Not a cry.

A whisper.

One word.

"Rewrite."

---