Theodora stood before that very antique mirror hanging in her grandmother's house, within a hallway. The frame was ornate and almost ostentatious, with flowers and vines intricately carved and entwined into the dark mahogany. She had the impression of a mirror that seemed to hold secrets, much more than one would expect from inanimate glass.

There was something about the mirror that had always made Theodora feel uneasy. She was a child running past it, for fear of what she might see lurking there within its depths. At twenty-four years old, she tried to reason out her fear with the fact that it was just an old mirror, nothing more. But tonight, the house was too still, shadows long, and the air too heavy, thick with dust and some sweetness, reminiscent of rotting roses.

She paused in front of the mirror, her reflection wavering a bit in the poor light. Her grandmother had died, leaving her the house, so she had come to pack up her grandmother's belongings. But there, with her hands still from the task, she felt a strangely strong pull to the mirror and couldn't avert her eyes.

Something was off about her reflection. Her—own face—stared back at her, but there was an odd stillness to it, a slight delay in the way her lips parted, as though the reflection wasn't just copying her movements but mimicking them—a fraction of a beat behind.

Theodora's heart quickened. She moved closer, until her breath began to fog on the glass. The reflection did, too, but something in its eyes, something different, struck her—some flicker of movement or shadow moving behind her that she hadn't seen with her own eyes.

She whirled around, but the hallway was bare, the house still. Theodora turned back to the mirror, but this time she gasped. The reflection hadn't returned to its place. It was still standing close, far too close, face nearly pressed against the glass. And then, without Theodora moving, the reflection smiled.

Theodora stumbled back, her heart racing. This wasn't possible. She must be hallucinating. She closed her eyes, then blinked again, but the reflection still smiled when she opened them. Slowly, it raised its hand to the glass, palm out, as if it would press against the pane. Instinctively, Theodora raised her own.

Their hands touched on the surface of the mirror, but instead of the cool touch of glass, Theodora felt something warm and solid. The reflection's hand, though still on the other side, felt like flesh.

Theodora jerked her hand back, terror surging through her. The reflection's smile broadened, and then, slowly, deliberately, it stepped back from the glass, as if making room for somebody else. Another figure appeared behind it, one that grew clearer with every second. It was a girl, younger, in an old-fashioned white dress, with pale skin and sunken eyes.

Theodora's knees weakened a little. She did recognize the girl. It was the same face she had seen in the photographs in her grandmother's attic—the face of a long-dead relative, her great-aunt, who had drowned when she was twelve.

The ghostly reflection and the girl in white stood side by side, staring at her with their unmoving eyes. Then, slow as if in slow motion, the girl reached out and put her hand on the shoulder of the reflection. The mirror started to ripple like it was made out of water, the glass undulating in waves.

Theodora drew back, but the hallway retreated out of sight behind her. Walls closed in; shadows darkened further and crowded against her. The mirror's surface wavered and the reflection stepped forward, breaking through as if across a threshold.

Theodora spun to run, but her feet seemed rooted to the spot. The reflection was out now, standing in the hallway, its smile faded into a look of cold, emotionless intent. Its companion, the girl in white, followed, her pale eyes fixed on Theodora.

Theodora gasped. She needed to get away, but her body wouldn't move. She was paralyzed, nailed to the floor, as the reflection lunged toward her face with its hand inches from her skin. The young woman in white stood behind him, silent, her eyes blank and hollow.

With a rush of adrenaline, Theodora shattered the paralysis and fled down the hall. She could feel the soft footsteps behind her close and steady. She dodged into the living room, her heart pounding in her ears, and slammed the door shut behind her, leaning against it with all her weight.

The house was ancient, the door weak, and in a couple of seconds, she could feel a chilling breeze as it started to creak open. She shoved a little harder, though it wasn't of any help. The reflection was wholly in her world now, stronger, its power developing as it crossed into reality.

The door opened abruptly, and Theodora went tumbling on her back till she hit the floor. He stood above her, and his expression was utterly lifeless. Then there was the woman in white, who was cold as ice; she knelt beside Theodora, reaching out her hand to touch her face.

The second the cold fingers made contact with her skin, Theodora felt a stab of pain, as if body and soul were being torn apart. Her vision blurred; the world reeled about her until it dropped into darkness.

Just on the threshold of unconsciousness, she heard an echo, a soft whisper, far away in her mind: "You are ours now."

Theodora opened her eyes to find herself standing again in the hallway, yet something was wrong. She felt cold, detached. Slowly, she turned toward the mirror, and there she stared back again, this time from the opposite side of the glass. Her reflection was the girl who had stepped out and was no longer a reflection; it was her, smiling faintly in her place.

Theodora laid her hand to the glass, but it was solid, cold. She was trapped, another shadow in the mirror.

The reflection turned away, now free, down the hallway, as if it had always been there, leaving Theodora to watch from the other side, a silent prisoner in the glass.

Again, the house grew silent, its air thick with dust and dying roses. Theodora's reflection strolled along empty corridors, its footsteps resounding softly on the wooden floors. It had no purpose, no need to hurry. It was finally home in the world it had so longed for for so many years.

In the mirror stood the real Theodora, her hands pressed against the glass, her scream voiceless, her tears invisible. And utterly alone, she was, imprisoned in a world of shadows forevermore, bound to the girl in white beside her, their fates entwined.

This mirror, once an artifact and nothing more, now held a different secret: that of a living soul imprisoned in its depths, a reminder that not all mirrors are to be trusted and some doors, once opened, can never be shut again.

The surface of the mirror shivered a final time as the reflection moved deeper into the house, then was still. The hall behind was reflected in its depths, as if nothing had occurred.

And in this stillness, in this silence, the house was waiting. Patient. For its next victim.