The Lurking Reflection

The old house had stood at the edge of the town for as long as anyone could remember, its windows like hollow sockets, peering out at the world with a silent vigil. It was said that the house was cursed, but the townsfolk had grown so accustomed to its presence that they no longer paid it much mind. That was until the night of the storm.

Maggie had always been drawn to the house. She was an artist, and to her, the house was a canvas waiting to be painted. The storm that night was a catalyst; the wind howled, and the rain beat against the old wood, a rhythm that seemed to call to her. She couldn't resist the urge to draw closer, to feel the energy of the house.

The door creaked open with a sound that felt like it came from the very heart of the house. Maggie stepped inside, her breath catching at the sight of the grand staircase leading up to the second floor. She had never been this far into the house before. The air was thick with dust and the scent of something ancient, something not of this world.

On the second floor, she found a room bathed in a pale glow. The source of the light was a mirror, its frame ornate and worn. Maggie approached cautiously, her eyes reflecting the eerie glow. She reached out to touch the glass, and as her fingers made contact, the mirror's surface rippled like water, distorting her reflection.

Suddenly, the room was filled with a cacophony of voices, a chorus of whispers that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. "You can't escape us," they hissed, their words like knives piercing through the silence. Maggie stumbled back, her heart pounding in her chest.

The voices grew louder, more insistent. "You are us, and we are you," they repeated. Maggie's mind raced. She had heard tales of demons, creatures of the dark, but she had never imagined they would reach out to her, touch her.

She turned to flee, but the door was gone. The room was vast, the walls closing in on her, the voices surrounding her. She spun around, searching for an exit, but there was none. The mirror was the only thing left, its surface now clear, reflecting nothing but her own terror.

Maggie's reflection began to change. Her eyes grew wider, her face contorted into a grotesque parody of itself. She saw herself as she truly was, the reflection of a soul twisted by the touch of the demon. She saw the darkness within her, the part that had always been there, lurking, waiting to be awakened.

The mirror's surface rippled again, and the voices grew louder, more desperate. "Join us," they pleaded. "Be one with us." Maggie's legs gave way, and she fell to her knees, her body trembling as the voices filled her mind, as the darkness inside her surged forward.

The next morning, the townsfolk found Maggie's body in the house. She had been crucified to the wall, her reflection still visible in the mirror, her eyes wide and staring. The mirror had shattered, leaving behind a trail of dark, sticky residue. The townsfolk were in shock, but none could understand the true horror that had befallen Maggie.

The house was abandoned, the mirror buried beneath a layer of earth. The townsfolk spoke of the curse, of the demon's delirium, but they could not escape the knowledge that it had been within them all along, waiting to be released.

And so, the legend of the Lurking Reflection was born, a tale of a woman who had been seduced by the darkness, whose reflection became her undoing. The mirror remained, a silent witness to the delirium that had taken hold of the mind of Maggie, and of those who dared to look into its depths.