The morning sun broke over the town like a dying ember orange, weak, and strange. Elora didn't sleep. She sat in the corner of her room all night, clutching a lamp that flickered every now and then, just enough to remind her the thing in her house hadn't left.
She didn't speak to it.
She didn't move.
Because when she did, it responded.
It whispered.
And it mimicked her voice.
By morning, her hands were shaking as she called the only person she could think of Reverend Nathaniel Graves.
The church looked older than time itself. Ivy strangled the walls, and a rusted cross leaned awkwardly atop the roof. Reverend Graves stood waiting outside before Elora even got out of the car, like he'd already known she was coming.
His eyes were pale gray, sunken deep with sleepless knowledge.
"I felt something last night," he said. "It crossed over."
Elora's voice cracked. "It followed us."
He gave a slow nod. "Some doors aren't just symbolic. That chapel you went to it was never abandoned. It was sealed. By force. By faith. And by blood."
She swallowed hard.
"What is it?"
The Reverend glanced at the clouds, as if expecting them to part.
"It's called a mirrorling. A being that watches, mimics, and attaches. It waits for an invitation. You gave it one."
"Now it doesn't just want to be near you… it wants to be you."
Meanwhile, Clara hadn't left her apartment since the voicemail. Every light was on. Every mirror covered. But still, she heard it. Breathing behind the walls. Dragging itself across the floorboards just out of sight.
At 3:33 a.m. the night before, her reflection had smiled when she didn't.
She screamed.
She broke the mirror.
But in the shards, it kept smiling.
Now she scrolled endlessly through demonology blogs and obscure forums. One name kept showing up: Corwin Ember. An ex-occultist turned underground demon tracker. Rumor had it, he disappeared six years ago.
She needed to find him.
Or she wouldn't survive the week.
Back at the church, Elora followed Reverend Graves into the old stone sanctuary. He handed her a blackened journal. Its pages were brittle, stained, and written in a language that slithered on the tongue.
"This is the last record of someone who faced the same being," he said. "They didn't make it. But they recorded what not to do."
Elora flipped to the final page.
"Never speak to it directly."
"Never look at it in a mirror."
"And above all… never answer the door if it knocks more than twice."
Her blood ran cold.
Last night, there had been three knocks.
At that moment, Clara's phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
A text this time.
"Corwin is watching."
"You already met him."
"He's just not himself anymore."
Her breath caught.
She turned slowly toward her living room window.
There, standing across the street, was a man in a black coat.
He didn't move.
He didn't blink.
But somehow, even through the glass
He smiled.