the devils mirror

The television cast a soft, flickering glow across the living room. On-screen, Spider-Man 3 played—an old favourite, in HD, but comforting. Chris lounged on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, while Rebecca curled beside him. Luke, nestled between them with a blanket pulled up to his chin, yawned loudly and stretched. “I’m tired,” he mumbled, blinking at the screen. Chris looked down at him and smiled. “Alright, sport. Time for bed.” Luke sat up and gave each of them a goodnight kiss. Rebecca gently rubbed his arm as he rose from the couch. “Go check on your brother before you crash, alright?” she said softly. Luke nodded. “He’s probably already in bed. Goodnight.” “Night, kiddo!” Chris called after him. As Luke padded out of the room, Chris chuckled. “Kids these days.” Rebecca glanced at her watch, frowning slightly. “Speaking of kids… where are Scott and Faith?” Chris hesitated. “Don’t know.” “I’ll give them a call—” “Leave them be,” Chris said quickl

The hiss of hot water filled the tiled bathroom as steam curled upward, fogging the mirror above the sink in a milky veil. Philip stood under the rainfall showerhead, eyes closed, letting the warmth soak into his muscles. It had been a long week—longer still under the growing shadow of tragedy that clung to his extended family like smoke. He rolled his shoulders, listening to the small, domestic orchestra of the room: the rush through copper pipes, the soft tick of the heat lamp cycling, the fan’s tired hum. For a few minutes, the ordinary sounds almost convinced him the world was still ordinary. The shower’s pristine, clear glass walls shimmered in the overhead light. Water pattered gently, a steady rhythm that dulled the edge of his thoughts. He reached for the soap and lathered his arms with mechanical slowness, falling into the comfort of routine. Suds slid over gooseflesh. He couldn’t shake the chill threading through the heat. Then—a creak. Faint. Wooden. Somewhere behind

The Iron Horse was a tired bar on the edge of town. Its ceiling tiles were stained yellow from decades of cigarette smoke, the jukebox sputtered out old country tunes, and the beer was always lukewarm. It wasn’t classy, but it was familiar—exactly the kind of place Robert and Horatio felt at home. They sat at a back table, nursing their schooners in near silence. “We should call our wives,” Horatio muttered, eyes flicking toward the door. Robert scoffed. “Quit worrying. They’re probably laughing it up at some boutique. I need to piss.” He pushed his chair back and ambled toward the toilets. The bathroom was dim, lit by a single flickering bulb. Grime lined the tiles, and the mirror above the sink was cracked down the centre. Robert stared at his reflection and grinned. “Still got it,” he murmured. Then—a tap on his shoulder. He turned. His reflection stood behind him. But twisted. Skin pale, stretched tight. Eyes black. Mouth split too wide into a jagged grin. “Robert

Chris led Sergeant Elsie Swatson up the wide front steps of the newly rebuilt mansion. The sleek timber beneath their boots was smooth, freshly oiled, and silent, but the air still carried a whisper of unease—salty sea wind curling like a ghost around the glass balustrades. The smart-lock clicked as Chris opened the oversized double doors, and the two stepped into a foyer bathed in soft, recessed lighting. The scent of new paint and varnished oak still lingered, but it couldn’t cover the colder presence that seemed to pulse beneath the surface. The foyer was grand, designed to impress—high ceilings, white marble floors, and a chandelier made of blown glass and chrome. Twin staircases curved along either wall, mirroring each other in architectural perfection. Between them, commanding the room, stood the mirror. It looked like it didn’t belong. Seven feet tall and framed in dark, gnarled wood, the mirror exuded a presence that no amount of modern polish could subdue. The frame wa