The woman in the mirror

Chapter Nine - The Woman in the Mirror

Ava’s hands trembled as she closed the door to Emilia’s room, her ears still echoing with the child’s murmured words. “She’s back. She watches.”

The hallway was dim, the vintage light fixtures flickering with low voltage. She leaned against the wall, pressing a palm over her racing heart. The night air was cold, but sweat slicked her back. Damon had said the estate was old, the structure creaking and groaning like any aging house—but this was more than creaks. More than shadows.

She had seen her.

A fleeting figure in the mirror—long black hair, pale skin like porcelain, her expression twisted in grief. Ava had assumed it was exhaustion, maybe a trick of the light, but now Emilia was seeing her too.

And she was saying the woman had returned.

Ava forced herself to move. She descended the stairs in the dark, each creak underfoot tightening the tension in her spine. Damon had disappeared into his study hours ago, but she wasn’t in the mood to chase him tonight. Every time she pushed for answers, he shut her down.

She went to the kitchen instead, pouring herself a glass of water and clutching the sink for support. Her reflection in the window looked ghostly in the moonlight—eyes wide, cheeks pale. She stared at herself for a long moment. Her gaze dropped to the window’s lower pane.

And froze.

Behind her stood a woman.

Ava spun around, knocking the glass from the counter. It shattered across the tile. But no one was there.

She backed into the corner, breathing hard, fists clenched at her sides. She wasn’t crazy. She wasn’t hallucinating. She had seen someone.

The kitchen door creaked. Damon stepped in, his expression tight. "What the hell happened?"

Ava didn’t answer immediately. Her mind still reeled from the image. "She was there again. Behind me. In the window."

He said nothing, his jaw tense.

"You keep telling me this house just creaks," Ava snapped. "You say it’s old. But I’m not imagining this, Damon. I saw her. Emilia saw her."

Damon glanced toward the hallway, then ran a hand through his hair. "Let’s not talk about this here. Come upstairs."

"Why? So you can feed me another half-truth?"

His tone turned sharp. "Ava. Not here."

Reluctantly, she followed him back upstairs and into his bedroom—one of the few places in the house she still felt safe in. He locked the door behind them and motioned for her to sit on the edge of the bed. She did, arms crossed.

"I should have told you sooner," Damon said, pacing. "But I didn’t want to drag you into it. I thought if I ignored it long enough, it would go away."

"What would go away?"

He paused. "Her name was Isobel. My wife. She died in this house."

Ava felt like the air was sucked out of the room. "You told me she passed, but you didn’t say how."

"Because I don’t know," he said. "I found her dead in the bathtub one morning. No note. No signs of struggle. The coroner said it was suicide, but... there were things I couldn’t explain."

He sat beside her, his fingers laced. "Doors slamming on their own. Mirrors shattering for no reason. And now Emilia—" his voice cracked, "—she’s talking to someone who isn’t there. Just like Isobel did."

Ava tried to steady her breath. "So you think she’s haunting the house?"

"I don’t know what I believe anymore. But I know this—I never want to lose Emilia. And if something supernatural is involved, I need to protect her."

Ava looked toward the wall, where the antique mirror hung. She stood slowly and walked to it, touching the cold glass.

Her reflection stared back.

And then something moved.

Not her. The reflection behind her—a shadow flitting past the door. She turned sharply, heart hammering.

"She’s watching," Ava whispered. "She’s waiting."

---

The next morning, Emilia was quiet at breakfast, poking at her food while humming to herself. Her eyes looked dull, as though she hadn’t slept.

"What did you dream about last night, sweetheart?" Ava asked gently.

Emilia looked up with a little frown. "I didn’t dream. Lady Isobel said dreams are too loud."

Ava glanced at Damon. His expression was unreadable.

Later, when Emilia was playing in the nursery, Ava returned to the hallway and stepped into the guest room she had used during her first days at the estate. She had avoided this part of the house since then. The room was quiet now, bathed in soft morning light.

She opened the closet.

Inside were coats and boxes, but behind them, her fingers brushed against something cold—metal.

A doorknob.

Ava pushed gently, revealing a narrow door. It creaked open to reveal a tight, dusty corridor. She stepped inside.

Cobwebs clung to her arms as she moved slowly down the hall, guided only by the light of her phone. At the end, another door waited.

This one was heavier. Painted black.

She opened it and stepped into a room frozen in time.

Isobel’s room.

Everything was pristine. The vanity held ancient perfume bottles, hairbrushes, and a crystal mirror. A pale blue dress was folded neatly on the bed.

Ava moved toward the vanity, her hands trembling. On the tabletop sat a small leather-bound journal.

She opened it.

He doesn’t love me anymore. I see it in his eyes. I hear it in his silence.

He thinks I’m crazy. Maybe I am. But I won’t let her take him.

Ava’s breath hitched. The entries grew darker, more frantic.

She wants him. She walks these halls like she belongs. I see her in my mirror.

The final entry made her stomach twist.

If I can’t have him, no one can.

Ava closed the book and backed away. Something shifted in the air—a pressure in the room. The mirror above the vanity began to fog up.

And then the words appeared.

GET OUT.

Ava stumbled out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

She ran back through the corridor, heart pounding in her chest, barely breathing until she reached the guest room again. She collapsed against the wall, clutching the journal to her chest.

There was no denying it now.

Isobel wasn’t just a memory. She was here. She was angry.

And she was watching Ava through every mirror in the house.

---

That night, Ava refused to sleep alone. Damon didn’t question her when she came into his room and crawled under the blankets. He pulled her into his arms, whispering apologies he didn’t know how to make real.

“I’m scared,” she whispered into the darkness.

“I know,” he murmured. “But I won’t let anything happen to you. Or to Emilia.”

They fell asleep like that, wrapped in shared fear and silent longing.

But across the hall, the mirror in Isobel’s room cracked—slowly, deliberately.

As if something on the other side was waking up.