I never remembered the attic having a door.

And yet, there it was faint, sun-bleached, and crooked at the top of the staircase. I'd walked those steps hundreds of times as a child, but that door had never been there before.

I stared at it for a long time, the morning after the funeral. Everything in this house seemed heavier now. Dust settled deeper, shadows clung longer, and silence rang louder. Grief does strange things to memory. It makes the familiar feel foreign. But that door... it didn't just feel new. It felt wrong.

Mother never let me in the attic. She said it was dangerous, the boards too weak to carry weight. "Not safe for a child," she'd say, over and over. But Mother said that about a lot of things like places, people, emotions. It was her way of keeping control, of hiding things she couldn't face.

And now she was gone. The house, its secrets and the silence remained.

I should've left the door closed.

The attic creaked open slowly, reluctantly, like it hadn't been disturbed in decades. Inside, it was warmer than the rest of the house, stale but perfumed. It smelled like lavender, dried rose, dust, and something faintly metallic. Light from a narrow window cut across the room like a blade, catching floating dust in its path. Old furniture stood like ghosts draped in white, and in the farthest corner facing the wall stood, an antique mirror.

It was tall. Ornate. Twisted vines of gold-trimmed metal curled around the frame, aged and tarnished. The mirror itself was covered in black velvet, tied with what looked like silk ribbon, though faded and fraying at the edges. It looked... regal. Out of place. Like it belonged to a cursed castle.

I approached it slowly, pulled by something I couldn't name. My fingertips brushed over the velvet. Cold, but soft. I felt the faintest shiver ripple under the surface of the glass beneath, like a pulse.

I froze.

No. I was imagining it. Maybe stress or exhaustion. Maybe the mirror had just settled from the draft. I was being ridiculous.

Still, I didn't unwrap it. I brought it downstairs instead.

I don't know why.

I placed it in the front hallway, across from the base of the staircase. It stood tall, dominating the narrow space, even with the velvet still draped over it. For some reason, I didn't want to uncover it just yet. Something in my gut said not to.

That night, I woke up gasping. No dream or sound that I could recall. Just darkness and stillness. I glanced toward the hallway.

The mirror was no longer facing the wall.

I sat up in bed, heartbeat hammering. I was certain I'd left it turned. Covered. But now, even wrapped in black cloth, it pointed directly at my bedroom door.

I crept toward it like it might move again. The air around it felt colder. I reached out, hand trembling, and placed my palm against the covered surface.

Beneath the fabric was a cold glass.

But then...

I felt a thud from inside the mirror. Muffled, Like a knock behind thick glass.

I stumbled back; breath caught in my throat. My eyes darted to the stairs.

My reflection wasn't visible because of cloth, but I had the strangest sense as if, I was being watched. Not by something within the house but from the other side of the glass.

I tied the ribbon tighter and turned the mirror back toward the wall.

In the morning, the shadows seemed to cling longer than usual. I made tea and sat by the window, watching the line where the backyard met the forest. The trees stood tall and dense, like a curtain drawn across the earth. This house had always backed onto that dark woodland. Mother called it the "old grove." She used to say, "The forest keeps what it wants."

I thought she meant animals.

Now...... I wasn't so sure.

Later that afternoon, I opened her hope chest. I didn't even know she still had it until I found it beneath her bed. Inside were bundles of letters, old photographs, and a diary bound in dark red leather. The kind with a clasp and no lock.

The first entry made my skin crawl.

"I should've left the mirror in Vienna."

I flipped through quickly. Page after page of entries, dated years apart. Mentions of sleepless nights, bruises she couldn't explain, voices in reflections. There were long gaps in the entries-months, sometimes years. But every so often, the same thing returned:

"She moves when I don't."

"She smiles without me."

"She wants to be out."

"If I die suddenly......burn the mirror. Don't let her out."

My blood turned to ice.

I closed the journal and looked up at the staircase, where the mirror stood hidden under velvet.

The house creaked softly as if it overhead everything.

                          ----------------------------------------------------------

A/N

{Picture of Iris as i imagine her UPLOADED.}

Enjoy reading spookies :)

with love,

Eunoia

Instagram: author_eunoia311