The reflection in the mirror remained still, smiling that impossible, ancient smile. Its presence pressed against the air, thickening it, making each breath a labor. The chamber itself seemed to lean inward, focused entirely on Annabelle, waiting for her to take the final step.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear her away. But my voice refused me, caught in the same weight that pressed down on our chests.
Annabelle reached toward the glass. Her fingers trembled, hesitant. The key pulsed in her other hand, almost desperate.
"Finish it," the reflection whispered inside our heads. "Become what you were chosen for. Return what was taken."
Her hand hovered millimeters from the surface. Time stretched. Shadows on the walls writhed unnaturally, echoing the pulse of the runes carved into the floor.
And then—
A sound shattered it. Not the house, not the mirror, not the whispers. A sound entirely human.
"Stop!"
The voice cracked through the chamber, unsteady but commanding. I stepped forward, unsure how I had found strength, but I did.
From the corridor behind us, the priest emerged. His eyes blazed with the weight of ritual, of knowledge far older than my comprehension. In his hands, he carried a small bundle of herbs, black iron, and salt.
The mirror pulsed in alarm. Shadows recoiled. The runes beneath our feet flickered, as if the house itself hissed in frustration.
"Annabelle," the priest called. "Do not let it take you! It wants to bind you as it has before. You are not ready. You are not theirs alone!"
Her hand faltered. The mirror's smile faltered. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
The priest began the chant, his voice rising over the pulse of the chamber. Each word resonated through the walls, through the floor, through the air itself. The mirror shimmered violently, rippling like a disturbed pond. Shadows shrieked silently, twisting against the edges of light.
Annabelle stepped back. Her breath came in shallow bursts, eyes wide with a mixture of relief and terror.
The reflection slammed its hands against the glass, pressing outward as though trying to force itself into her.
"You belong to us!" it hissed, sharper, more violent.
The priest stepped closer, flinging the salt and scattering the herbs across the threshold of the chamber. The reflection screamed—though no sound left the mirror. Its face twisted in fury and fear simultaneously.
And then, in a blink, it began to fade. Shadows uncurled from the corners, leaving the chamber lighter, the air breathable again.
Annabelle fell to her knees, shaking, clutching the key as if it were the only tether keeping her human. I rushed to her side, holding her, feeling her pulse hammer against mine.
The priest placed a hand on the mirror, murmuring a final incantation. The glass dulled, losing its unnatural shimmer, until it was just a mirror again. Only a faint imprint of a smile remained, like smoke burned onto the surface.
"Not yet," the priest said quietly, looking down at Annabelle. "But it will return. The house never forgets. The woods never forgive. And the reflection… it always waits for its chance."
Annabelle exhaled, relief and fear tangled in her trembling form.
I squeezed her hand. "You're safe… for now."
She nodded, though her eyes darted back to the mirror, to the darkened corridor beyond, to the pulse of the house itself.
The house had been interrupted, yes. But it had not been defeated. And somewhere, deep in its roots, the memory of us — of her — lingered, patient, waiting.
And so did the reflection.