Reflections

Mara’s stomach dropped the moment she saw the program in her hands. Her name was printed at the top in bold black letters. Not her grandmother’s. Hers.

This had to be a mistake. Some kind of horrible printing error. She looked up, eyes scanning the church. Candles flickered along the walls, casting shadows that twisted like ropes. White roses drooped in their vases, their scent clinging to the air in a way that made her head spin. Her family whispered amongst themselves, leaning in and stopping whenever she glanced their way. Every face seemed tense, watchful.

Mara clutched the program like it could protect her. She slid into a pew, but the wood groaned under her weight, complaining as if it could feel her fear.

Then she noticed it. The coffin.

Ordinary. Silent. Nothing about it seemed wrong—at least, on the surface. Her grandmother should be inside. Supposed to be dead. That’s the way funerals worked. Still, Mara’s stomach tightened as she stared at the closed coffin. She had no way to know what it held, and that uncertainty made her queasy in a way she couldn’t explain.

The priest’s voice carried through the church, steady and deep, but it didn’t sound comforting. “We gather here today to honor the life that has passed…and to protect what remains.”

Mara blinked. Protect what?

Around her, the congregation whispered in hushed tones. Not quiet mourning, but sharp, urgent murmurs. Heads bent together, lips brushing ears, voices low and strange. Every time Mara turned toward them, they froze or looked away, as if afraid to be caught. Her stomach lurched with unease.

Her mother’s hand pressed lightly on her shoulder. “Sit still,” she whispered. But her eyes were distant, not warm, and Mara felt a sudden jolt of isolation.

The priest lifted his hands over the coffin. “We gather to witness the passage, and to ensure the past does not return.”

Something about the words didn’t make sense—yet they felt directed at her. She didn’t understand.

A faint creak echoed from somewhere overhead. She glanced up, then looked down at her lap. The program trembled slightly in her hands. Her eyes darted to her family again. They were staring at her. Not worried. Not sad. Watching.

The priest’s voice cut through again, calm but commanding. “We honor the dead by remembering—and by remaining vigilant. For what sleeps beneath may wake once more.”

Mara’s eyes widened. What is he talking about?

She had to get away, even for a moment. Every whispered word from the family, the priest, every sideways glance, pressed down on her chest. She slipped quietly down the hall, the black dress rustling against the polished floor.

The door to the side room was cracked open, and a thin line of light spilled into the dim corridor. Mara pushed it gently, just enough to slip inside. The room smelled faintly of dust and old wood, with the fleeting aroma of something metallic she couldn’t place.

Her eyes fell on a large mirror leaning against the far wall. The frame was dark, carved with twisting shapes that seemed almost alive—like faces. She wasn’t sure. They were distorted, cruel, as if trapped in the wood itself.

Mara stepped closer. The air felt heavier here, and her stomach knotted. She caught her reflection in the glass, expecting to see herself pale and trembling. Instead, the mirror made her movement lag behind hers for a fraction of a second, a tiny delay that made her blink twice.

That was impossible.

She leaned closer. The carvings seemed to twist slightly when she wasn’t looking directly at them. Shadows pooled in the corners of the room, but when she turned to check, there was nothing. Mara’s hands went clammy, and a shiver ran up her spine, telling herself it was just nerves. It had to be.

And yet…she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

Something about the mirror called to her. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t speak. But Mara felt it pressing on her mind, subtle and insistent, like a tug at the edge of her thoughts. She had no idea what it wanted—or why she couldn’t stop staring.

Every instinct told her to leave, to run back to the hall, back to her parents. But her feet remained rooted to the floor—one palm pressed against the wall. The silence of the room felt heavier than ever, thick like fog. Maybe it was just her imagination. Maybe she was letting herself get carried away by fear.

A sound made her jump: the door creaked open. Mara’s stomach plummeted as she turned toward the doorway. Her family had followed her. They were quiet at first, but their eyes were fixed—not on her—but on the mirror.

Mara’s breath caught as she followed their gaze.

In the glass, where her own reflection should have been, was another face. It wasn’t a trick of the light. It was sharp, lined with wrinkles, eyes too knowing to belong to anyone standing in the room. It was Grandma Vera.

Mara didn’t scream. She couldn’t. Her body froze, every nerve tense. The room seemed to shrink. Her uncle stepped closer, lips moving in a muttered prayer. Her cousin Daniel whispered, half to himself, half to the others: “It’s her…”

Her parents didn’t speak, but their hands were clenched, knuckles white. She wanted to step away, but the way they all stared, the way the air pressed down on her, made her feel trapped in a spotlight of judgment and fear.

The reflection in the mirror stayed perfectly still, a straight-faced version of her own features that didn’t blink or move. A cold knot of dread tightened in her chest. The family saw it too. And in that instant, the invisible line that had separated Mara from them—the line she thought would protect her—vanished.

Eyes met hers. Faces she had known her whole life, twisted with a mix of terror and determination. The whispered words floated from their lips, soft but clear: “Not again…we have to end it.”

Mara realized then that this wasn’t just fear. This was ritual. Judgment. And suddenly, she understood: she couldn’t ignore it anymore. Whatever had been lurking, waiting, had woken.

Her aunt stepped closer, holding something small and silver in her hand. A locket? No—it gleamed with sharp edges, like a tool she couldn’t name. The others formed a half-circle around Mara, tense and deliberate.

Her mind raced. She tried to pull back, but her legs felt heavy. The family’s murmurs were soft but adamant. “We have to end it…” “She can’t come back…” “It has to stop…”

Her breath came in short, ragged bursts. Her hands shook. And then, faintly, a thought brushed against the edge of her mind: They’re going to hurt you, dear.

Mara’s eyes darted back and forth from the mirror to her family. The circle was closing, their intent clear, and the weight of the moment pressed on her like stone. The reflection didn’t blink. It didn’t move. But Mara could feel it—not physically, but something darker.

Her parents’ eyes locked with hers—pleading, fearful, and determined all at once. They weren’t here to help her. They were here to stop whatever the mirror had brought back. Whatever it wanted her to become.

The circle closed. Her uncle’s hand hovered near a silver tool, her cousin’s gaze never leaving her. Mara’s hands shook uncontrollably. Her heart pounded so loudly it seemed to echo in the room.

And then the whisper sharpened, insistent, unavoidable: Do it.

Mara’s chest heaved. For a breathless second, she froze—trapped between the fear of them and the pull of the mirror. And then...her own lips curved. Slowly, deliberately.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile stretched across her face.

Mara tilted her head slightly, the tiniest part of her aware and thrilled. The rest…was already gone.

The family gasped. Whatever restraint she had left, snapped. And in that instant, she was no longer just Mara—the mirror had her, and the circle of intent around her now contained the final witness to her surrender.

Kill them.