Chapter 2- The House With No Mirrors

The smell hits me before I even make it downstairs.

Earthy and bitter, with something faintly sweet underneath—like moss and licorice boiled together. I follow it barefoot, careful over the groaning wood floors. The whole house creaks like it’s stretching after a long sleep.

Elsie is already in the kitchen, hunched over a chipped kettle on the stove. She doesn’t look up when I enter.

“You sleep?” she asks, voice low and scratchy.

“I think so,” I say, hovering in the doorway.

She doesn’t respond—just pours something dark into two mismatched mugs. No cream, no sugar. No asking how I like it.

I take the mug she holds out and sit at the little wooden table by the window. Outside, the fog presses heavy against the glass, swallowing the yard, the trees, everything.

Elsie sits across from me, sips slowly, like she’s done this a thousand mornings.

I taste mine.

It’s awful. Bitter, sharp, like dirt and wilted flowers and something metallic I can’t place. I try not to make a face.

She notices anyway. “Good for you,” she says, perfectly serious.

Of course it is.

We sit in silence, just us and the fog. Her eyes watch me like she’s studying an old photo.

Finally, I can’t help it. “So,” I say, “are we gonna talk about the warning signs painted all over this place? The no mirrors thing? The attic door sealed shut? Or the fact something was growling outside my window last night?”

She lifts her gaze. “You heard it.”

“You’re not gonna pretend it was a raccoon?”

“No.”

I wait. Nothing. Just that.

I set my mug down. “I’m gonna need a little more than ‘You heard it.’ Like—what did I hear? Wolves? Bears?”

Her mismatched eyes flick toward the window. “Wolves don’t come this close.”

“Then what does?”

She looks at me properly then, and for a moment, there’s something like regret in her eyes. Or warning.

“The forest,” she says softly, “isn’t fully asleep yet.”

I blink. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re ready for.”

My mouth opens, then shuts. “I don’t believe in forest curses, you know.”

“You don’t have to believe in something,” she says, “for it to believe in you.”

That shuts me up.

I take another stubborn sip. Still gross.

She pushes a bundle across the table—dried herbs tied with string. “Keep this in your room. Near the window.”

“Why?”

“So it knows you’re mine.”

I laugh, half-nervous. “What knows I’m yours?”

She just sips her tea.

After breakfast—or whatever that was—I can’t sit still. The silence feels too heavy, like the house is holding its breath. I wander upstairs to see the rest.

The hallway feels different in daylight. Less haunted, more tired. The herbal smell is everywhere.

The bathroom should be normal.

It isn’t.

A clawfoot tub, stained but usable. Hand-poured soaps, a bowl of salt. Where the mirror should be over the sink, there’s only an empty wooden frame. Someone’s nailed cloth over it.

Curiosity gets the better of me. I reach up, fingertips brushing the fabric.

Instant goosebumps.

Cold rushes over my skin like breath.

I jerk my hand back, heart racing.

“Okay,” I whisper, voice thin. “Cool. Not weird at all.”

Back downstairs, the parlor holds two old armchairs and a cold fireplace. More frames hang on the walls. All empty.

I pause, staring.

Why keep so many empty frames? Why cover the mirrors?

Why does this house feel like it’s hiding from its own reflection?

I stop at the last door at the end of the hall.

Unlike the others, this door is black—deep, inky black—fitted with thick iron hinges that look almost too heavy for the house. The knob is dark, round, like polished stone.

I touch it.

Cold.

Not winter-cold. Dead cold. Like touching something pulled from the bottom of a river.

I step back, kneel, and peek at the crack under the door.

Stuffed with dried plants bound in red thread. The scent stings my nose—sharp, bitter.

Why seal a door like this?

I press my ear against the wood.

Silence. Heavy and complete.

But my skin crawls, like something behind the door knows I’m there.

In kitchen, Elsie is mixing charcoal powder in a wooden bowl.

“What’s behind the black door?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

She doesn’t look up. “Which one?”

“You know which one.”

“It doesn’t belong to this house,” she says softly.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’ll get.”

I study her face. “Are you always this cryptic, or is this just for me?”

A small smile, sad at the edges. She doesn’t reply.

Later, in my room, I check my phone.

No bars. No Wi-Fi. Maps shows nothing but a lone blue dot floating in gray emptiness.

I try texting Zoey anyway:

u would not believe this place. zero signal. zero mirrors. pretty sure my aunt is a forest witch.

The message hangs unsent, mocking me with a red exclamation mark.

I shove the phone into my pocket and step outside.

The air bites, damp and close. Fog coils low, clinging to my boots as I head down the gravel path.

Halfway to the road, I stop. That feeling again—like eyes on the back of my neck.

I turn. Nothing.

I keep walking. Crunch. Crunch.

A twig snaps.

I freeze.

Another sound—slow, deliberate. Heavy.

At the treeline, something shifts. A darker patch among the trunks. No shape. Just stillness that feels too intentional.

My pulse pounds.

I walk faster. Not running. Just… not stopping.

At the porch, I slam the door behind me and press my back to it, breath catching.

Probably just a deer. Just nerves.

Except deer don’t watch you.

And this felt like something waiting.

That night, I tuck the herb bundle Elsie gave me under the window. Not because I believe. Just because I don’t want to find out what happens if I don’t.

The dream starts the same.

Fog. Trees. Silence so thick it hums.

But this time, I’m not running.

I’m standing barefoot in a clearing. The cold earth presses up through my feet.

Then I see them.

Eyes.

Golden. Still. Closer than before. Maybe fifteen feet away, half-hidden behind a tree.

The fog swirls low, curling around my ankles. The eyes stay fixed on me. Watching.

They don’t blink.

Something steps forward. Shoulders broad, shape huge in the fog. Trees seem to lean away from it.

A sound rises—not a growl. A hum, deep and thrumming. I feel it behind my ribs, buzzing through bone.

It swells, vibrating in my chest.

Then—

It speaks.

Not words. A pulse. A note that hits something under my skin, deep and ancient.

I gasp.

The world snaps—

I wake up, chest heaving, sweat cold on my skin.

Outside, the wind holds still.

But something presses close around the house. Like the forest is holding its breath.

I don’t sleep again.