It was a cold winter night when I decided to visit my childhood home. It had been years since I last set foot there. The house, now abandoned, stood silent and foreboding at the end of a desolate road. As I stepped inside, a rush of memories hit me, and the air grew heavy with an inexplicable sense of dread.
I wandered through the dusty rooms, each one evoking a sense of nostalgia and unease. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet, and the walls seemed to whisper secrets from the past. I finally reached the attic, a place I had always avoided as a child. It was there that my fears were confirmed.
In the dim light of my flashlight, I saw it: an old, ornate mirror, covered in a thick layer of dust. My reflection stared back at me, but something was off. The figure in the mirror seemed to move independently, its eyes filled with a malevolent intelligence. My heart pounded in my chest as I watched my mirrored self grin, a twisted, sinister smile that did not match my own expression.
I tried to back away, but my legs felt like lead. The figure in the mirror began to move towards me, its hand reaching out as if to pull me in. Panic surged through me, and I screamed, but no sound came out. The last thing I saw before everything went black was my own reflection, now perfectly mimicking my terror.
When I awoke, I was no longer in the attic. I was trapped inside the mirror, watching helplessly as an unfamiliar figure walked away, leaving me behind. I am still here, waiting, hoping that someday someone will find the courage to come close enough to free me. Until then, I am just another ghostly reflection, lost in a forgotten mirror.
