The mark on Claire's palm pulsed like a heartbeat—but it wasn't hers. It beat slower. Heavier. As if it belonged to something older… something beneath the skin.
From above, the ceiling creaked.
The attic.
She didn't want to go. Every instinct begged her to run, to scream, to tear through the front door and never look back. But her feet moved anyway. Like the house had already decided.
The stairwell groaned under her weight as she climbed. The air grew colder with each step, thicker—like breathing through wet wool. Shadows bled from the corners. At the top, the attic door hung slightly open, something dark oozing down its frame like ink.
Claire reached for the handle, hand trembling.
A whisper slid through the silence:"Don't look away."
She pushed.
The attic was empty. But not.
No furniture. No boxes. Just dust, silence, and a mirror—a tall, antique oval, leaning against the far wall.
It didn't reflect the attic.
It showed stairs. Descending into darkness. Too deep. Too far. Too impossible.
Claire stepped closer. The mirror shimmered, like water rippling at the surface of a deep, black sea.
Then—"Claire?"
A voice.
A child's voice.
His voice.
Her brother.
She didn't hesitate. Her hand met the mirror—and slipped through like mist.
With a gasp, she was pulled in.