The house bore 300 years of family history in its hard stone walls, and while Miranda’s time here had always been joyful, she couldn’t help but feel that there was something caught here, something beyond the surface of the walls.
The large plate glass mirrors in the parlor and the upstairs hallway in particular had always frightened her, not so much for what they might reflect, but for the feeling she had that any image she saw in them might be less reflection of this world and more a glimpse into whatever world lay beyond the silvery gleam of the glass. Her father assured her that nothing of the sort could be true, of course, but the pricking of her skin when she passed by them told her otherwise.
Still, she wanted to walk through the rooms one more time before turning over the keys to the new owners in the morning and so she moved slowly through the rooms in the deepening twilight, saying goodbye to each one and the memories within, taking care not to look in the mirrors – just in case. As she returned to the parlor, the beating of wings startled her for a moment before she talked herself back from the edge of terror with the shaky reassurance it was simply a wayward pigeon or crow who had found his way in through an open window.
The last copper flames of sunset crept through the bare parlor windows and into the room, illuminating the mirror as Miranda’s scream shattered both silence and glass.
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