the devils mirror
Suddenly, demonic laughter echoed from the upstairs balcony.
Faith turned, eyes wide. “What was that?”
“Faith—behind me,” Scott ordered. “Now!”
“I’d listen to him if I were you,” Trish said, already moving.
“Where’s the mirror?” Faith asked.
“Over there.” Trish approached it cautiously. The mirror’s surface rippled with violent movement. The ancient murals carved into its frame were fighting each other, clawing and stabbing like imprisoned souls battling for dominance.
Trish clutched her worry beads, wound around the crucifix in her left hand. From her coat pocket, she pulled a battered silver hip flask—holy water.
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