Ruth bowed her head as she ambled down Rainford Lane, her boots crunching on the gravel. Autumn had painted the world in shades of rust and gold, and the leaves whispered secrets in the crisp breeze. However, today the air felt unusually thick, as if an unseen force lingered, waiting.
The village of Elderwood had never been one to embrace the mundane. Folk tales wove through the generations, accounts of spectral figures appearing in windows, chilling wind breezes that spoke names long forgotten, and mirrors that reflected events before they happened. Ruth dismissed them as mere stories, fables to entertain children on dreary winter nights, but a part of her was curious, always yearning to uncover the mysteries flitting through the edges of her perception.
She pushed open the gate to Merrivale House, a centuries-old building that stood eerily alone at the end of the lane. It had belonged to her family for generations, yet its last inhabitant had vanished over a decade ago, leaving the house cloaked in a fog of memories and whispers. Ruth had inherited it last summer, a gift tinged with shadows. She had initially been excited over the possibilities—restoration, a fresh start—but more than once, she had felt a strange compulsion to turn back, to dig into the past wrapped around the walls.
On that day, she stepped into the house, greeted by the familiar scent of dust and decay. Sunlight filtered through the grimy windows, casting veils of muted light. As she moved through the hallways, her fingertips brushed against the wallpaper, its floral print faded and peeling. Memories flickered in the dim rooms; laughter from gatherings long ago, shadows of old arguments, glimpses of her ancestors—a family of artists, writers, dreamers.
In her exploration, she found herself drawn to the attic. A flight of creaky stairs led upward, and as she ascended, the air grew cold. Each step felt heavier, as if the house itself were urging her to stay away. When she reached the attic, the door groaned, revealing a chamber filled with forgotten remnants—old trunks, moth-eaten drapes, and a tall, ornate mirror sitting in the far corner, draped in a thin sheet.
The mirror was unlike anything Ruth had seen before; its frame was intricately designed with swirling patterns that seemed to flow even in the stillness of the attic. She hesitated, then, compelled by a force she didn’t understand, she reached out and pulled the sheet away. The glass gleamed, perfectly polished, reflecting her startled expression back at her.
As she gazed into it, she felt an odd sensation, as if the mirror drew her in. Her heart raced as shadows shifted in the reflection, phantoms of movement just beyond her line of sight. Ruth took a step back, but her curiosity overpowered her fear. She leaned closer, her breath fogging the cold surface, and whispered, “Hello?”
Silence enveloped her, but the reflection held its own reality. Slowly, the image began to warp, revealing distorted versions of herself—sometimes older, sometimes younger, each flickering in and out of focus. Suddenly, a figure appeared behind her, a tall man wearing a dark coat, his features obscured. Ruth gasped and turned. Nothing but the dim attic greeted her.
Chilled, she returned her gaze to the mirror. This time, the man was gone, but a different scene materialised: the mirror reflected a younger Ruth, laughing with friends in a vibrant garden, sunlight spilling like gold. She could almost hear their laughter, but the scene changed again, blurring and twisting into darkness, revealing a face filled with rage, eyes ablaze with fury.
Ruth stumbled backwards, heart thundering. She glanced over her shoulder, searching for an explanation, but the attic remained undisturbed. She felt as though the mirror was a portal, an abyss revealing her past, her future, and something beyond—the unknown.
With dread pooling in her belly, she hesitated longer than it took for her curiosity to rekindle. What if she could use the mirror to glimpse more? Could she unlock answers about the disappearance of her ancestor, who had once owned Merrivale? Drawn back to the glass, Ruth gripped the frame tightly, whispering a silent prayer. She focused, willing the mirror to show her something specific.
Images swirled rapidly. It was disorientating, her sense of time slipping, unaware if moments were seconds or lifetimes. Finally, the chaos settled, and a clear image emerged. A woman—her ancestor—stood by the mirror, dressed in flowing white attire, her face shadowed but strong. The atmosphere thickened, and Ruth could feel despair radiating from the reflection.
“Help me,” the woman mouthed silently.
Ruth’s breath caught, an ice shard piercing through her chest. Just then, a shadow crossed behind the girl in the mirror, identical to the man she had seen before, darkness spilling from his form like ink through water. The woman’s expression changed from pleading to horror, and the mirror went black.
Stumbling away from the glass, Ruth felt panic rise in her throat. The tale of her ancestor had been one of loss, of madness and shadows, but now it was becoming a myth made real. Before she could regain her thoughts, she heard a soft whisper threading through the air, calling her name—a seductive, silky tone that resonated deep within her.
“Ruth…”
Hesitating, she turned back, her heart pounding. The mirror was unchanged, a simple reflection staring back, benign yet eerie under the dull attic light. Was it trickery? Perhaps a trick of the mind, the frightful tales woven into her memory unravelling now before her eyes? Yet she felt a magnetic pull, as if some force beyond comprehension was reaching toward her, guiding her hand.
Ruth reached out again. This time, she took a breath and pressed her palm against the cool surface. The mirror shifted but retained her semblance. Slowly, images began to cascade through the glass again. Would the spectre return?
It didn’t take long for the darkness to recede, and she found herself staring at her own reflection, though moments later, it changed. A storm brewed in her soul as she realised: the quiet figure behind her was the man she had first seen, now encased in a halo of wraith-like energy. He raised his hand, pointing directly at her.
“Find me…” he hissed, his voice echoing in her mind.
Her heart raced as dread coursed through her. Ruth stepped back, glancing nervously at the doorway, the shadows stretching like claws. The man in the mirror was not a stranger. He wore the semblance of someone from her childhood, a fleeting, half-formed memory of a family gathering long past. Age had not touched him in this garish reflection; he remained forever young.
But she had also heard stories of a vengeful spirit caught by the torments of a life unfulfilled, a soul determined to find closure.
Clutching her chest, Ruth turned sharply and fled the attic, her mind spinning. She needed to uncover the truth. There were tales in old journals, perhaps scattered throughout Merrivale, tales that would illuminate the dark undercurrents flowing beneath her family’s past.
Days passed, each filled with frantic searches through rooms thick with dust. Every crevice seemed to hide echoes of those who had come before her. Then, seated in the library with a stack of leather-bound tomes, Ruth found one that resonated—the journal of her great-great-grandmother. It was merely a collection of thoughts, but one entry caught her attention:
“I see him in the mirror—a restless spirit. I cannot free him, for he was wronged in his life, cursed to wander the darkened halls forever. He was a lover, a friend…”
With trembling fingers, she continued reading. It revealed a story of betrayal and unfulfilled love. Her ancestor had known the man, had loved him dearly, but treachery had forced them apart, leaving him to vanish one fateful night.
Memories surged as she recalled her visions in the attic. Filling her head with newfound fire, she slowed her heartbeat and realised it was at the mirror where this tale began.
Returning to the attic, Ruth steeled herself and faced the mirror. The air crackled with intensity. Behind her stood nothing but shadows, yet she could sense him, the man—the curse and the missing piece of her ancestry.
“I know your name,” Ruth declared, voicing the plea that had been trapped in her heart. “I will find you.”
Almost instantaneously, she felt the atmosphere shift. The image in the mirror smoothed out—becoming clear again—and for a brief instant, she saw the man looking back at her, eyes deep with yearning and despair. Then, the shadows pooled in to envelop him, merging with the glass as he receded.
But Ruth could not give up. She would not be the one to allow his story to fade. She pulled open the drawer of an old desk in the attic, frantic. Hidden beneath scraps of paper, she uncovered a small brass key. It sang to her, harmonising with the echoes of tales, of redemption.
With the key gripped tightly in her palm, she knew a door waited to be discovered, one that could unlock the ghost of the past.
A storm brewed down the lane, howls of wind creating a tempest outside. As rain battered the rooftops, Ruth faced the fading daylight, her resolve firming. She turned back to the mirror, and with her heart alight with intention, she watched as the spirits around her whispered in their own language—an awakening, a rebirth tangled in reflections of the unknown.
In the darkened attic, it would become her mission to unravel the secrets of Merrivale and to find him—finally free him from the shackles of a cursed legacy lost in shadows, with hope gleaming bright in every reflection she dared to confront.
