At exactly 6:00 p.m., right on the dot, the black car rolled to a stop outside Elira's apartment like an omen that kept its appointments.
Elira glanced out her window, then sighed deeply, holding her breath for a moment before letting it go with the weariness of someone who'd just surrendered to fate. A soft rumble echoed from the engine below, smooth and patient—as though the vehicle itself were aware of its strange role in her increasingly surreal life.
She had her suitcase by the door already, packed and zipped since early afternoon. It wasn't a large case—just enough clothes for a week, her toiletries, a notebook, and a few backup horror story drafts. Most of her belongings didn't scream permanence. But then again, nothing about this arrangement felt permanent. More like an elaborate, unnerving internship with a cryptic employer who could afford to pay someone to whisper fear into his ear.
She took one final look around her small studio apartment. The walls were still dressed in the warm hues of dusk—peach-toned shadows creeping across her worn bookshelf, her tiny kitchenette looking lonelier than usual. She made a mental note to water her plants if—when—she came back.
The knock never came. As always, the driver never needed to announce his presence.
Elira stepped out into the hallway, tugging her tote bag onto her shoulder and wheeling the suitcase behind her. The air outside was still warm from the afternoon sun, but a breeze had begun to stir—cooler, less forgiving. The type of wind that whispered of nights best spent indoors.
The driver stepped out of the car the moment she came into view. Wordless, poised in the same black suit and gloves he always wore, he walked to the trunk, lifted her suitcase with mechanical ease, and placed it inside. Then, with the efficiency of a practiced routine, he opened the back door and stepped aside.
Elira hesitated for just a second—only just—before ducking into the car. The familiar leather scent greeted her like a strange friend. The silence pressed down immediately. No greeting, no music, no idle small talk.
The door closed with a muffled thunk. The car began to move.
She looked out the window as the city began to blur past—graffiti-tagged walls, grocery stores with flickering neon signs, couples walking dogs, vendors packing up carts. Life kept going on the outside. Mundane, predictable.
And here she was… being chauffeured to the edge of reality.
---
The ride took just under thirty minutes, though it always felt longer. A kind of time warp happened in that car. She could swear that with every trip, the streets leading to Aleksei's estate grew darker, emptier. As if the mansion had a way of pulling her into its orbit and bleeding away the rest of the world.
At the estate gates, the usual guards were waiting. One tapped on the car window and the driver rolled it down an inch.
She didn't hear what was said—never did—but a moment later, the gates creaked open, and they drove up the winding driveway lined with hedges that looked trimmed by ghosts. She saw no birds, no squirrels, not even the sound of insects. Just silence and the occasional flicker of garden lights switching on as the car passed.
When they stopped in front of the entrance, the front door opened before she even unbuckled.
Two guards were already stepping forward.
She got out. Immediately, one of them motioned toward her suitcase. The other gestured for her to raise her arms.
"Oh, don't mind me," Elira muttered, deadpan. "Just a young woman here to tell a bedtime ghost story. Totally normal. No hidden blades or holy water. Feel free to search my socks."
The guard remained stone-faced, his hands gliding swiftly and professionally over her torso and arms. They didn't acknowledge her sarcasm. They never did.
The other guard unzipped her suitcase and began rifling through her belongings. Clothes were carefully inspected. A hairbrush was turned over. Even her notebook was flipped open, though none of the scribbled paragraphs seemed to raise alarms.
When they were done, one of the guards looked up and said, "You'll need to surrender your phone before every session. You'll get it back after each one."
Elira rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes. No selfies in the haunted manor. Understood."
The guard didn't react.
They took her suitcase and handed it off to another staff member dressed in muted gray. "Guest bedroom," one of them ordered, and the staffer nodded before disappearing with her belongings down a hallway Elira hadn't seen before.
She wanted to ask what the guest bedroom looked like. If it had mirrors. If it locked from the inside. But decided it was better not to tempt fate with curiosity.
Another guard appeared. "This way."
She followed, the now-familiar cold of the marble floor sending a twinge up her spine through the soles of her boots. This time, they didn't lead her to the study. Or the library.
Of course not.
It was bedtime.
Aleksei Volkov wanted another story—and that meant the bedroom.
---
The corridor leading to his personal quarters was quieter than the rest of the house, almost insulated. The walls were darker here, lit by antique sconces that cast long, flickering shadows across oil paintings she hadn't noticed before. Most of them featured wolves. Forests. Winter.
The door was already ajar when she arrived.
The guard stepped aside, allowing her to push it open the rest of the way herself.
The room was vast. Wood-paneled walls, dim lighting, the subtle scent of tobacco and something older—cedarwood, maybe. The massive bed sat beneath a canopy of deep gray fabric, and the fireplace crackled gently, throwing amber hues across the ornate rug.
Aleksei was lounging against the headboard, dressed in a dark sweater and lounge pants, one leg bent and the other stretched out, barefoot again. A glass of something amber sat on the bedside table—likely scotch, the way it always was.
He looked up, eyes locking with hers. Calm, unreadable.
"You're late," he said, even though she knew she wasn't.
"I'm exactly on time," she replied, walking further into the room.
He gestured to the armchair by his side. "Sit. Tonight's story… make it worse than the last."
"Oh, don't worry," she said, lowering herself onto the plush seat and reaching into her tote. "Tonight's one is darker. Disturbing. Definitely not for kids."
A smirk curved at the edge of his lips.
"Good."
She flipped open her notebook and found the page she'd marked earlier. Her fingers brushed the edges of the paper, steadying herself.
This one wasn't just disturbing.
It was about mirrors. And madness. And the fear that the reflection staring back might not always be yours.
She took a deep breath.
And began:
"Tonight's story is called The Girl in the Mirror…"
Elira settled deeper into the armchair, the notebook heavy in her lap. The fire crackled softly beside her, casting flickering light across Aleksei's sharp cheekbones. He leaned back against the headboard with his glass in hand, his legs crossed at the ankles beneath the silk sheets. His expression was one of casual expectation, but his eyes—they were hungry.
Not for her.
For the story.
Elira licked her lips, flipped a page, and let her voice soften into that low, velvety rhythm she always used when setting a scene.
"There was a girl named Mira. Eighteen years old. Quiet, average, someone you'd never notice twice on the street. She lived in a small town where nothing ever happened—unless you count the strange whispers that clung to one house on the edge of Pine Street. A house with windows so old they bowed outward, and a mirror in the attic that no one had touched in years."
Aleksei raised a brow, sipping his scotch. "Of course. It's always the quiet ones, isn't it? The ones who look harmless." He swirled the glass. "They're always the first to die. Or the last ones left standing."
Elira smiled faintly but didn't respond.
"Mira wasn't the kind of girl who believed in curses or ghost stories. She liked science. She liked knowing things made sense. But when her parents died in a car crash, she was sent to live with her aunt—the town's unofficial 'weird woman'—who lived in the Pine Street house. Her aunt was always muttering about the mirror. Never to look into it after midnight. Never to be in the attic alone. Never to whisper your name while near it."
Aleksei's smile widened. "Let me guess… she did all three."
Elira glanced up from her notebook. "Naturally. Because what's the point of rules if you're not going to break them?"
That earned a quiet chuckle from him.
"The attic was cold. Dust layered everything like snow. And there in the center, beneath a stained white cloth, was the mirror. Mira didn't touch it. Not at first. But it called to her in subtle ways—like footsteps in an empty hallway, or her reflection in the bathroom turning its head slightly slower than she did. The first time she looked into it, nothing happened. It was just a mirror. A large, oval thing with a wooden frame that curled like vines."
"But on the third night, at 12:03 a.m., she heard humming."
Aleksei leaned forward slightly. "From the mirror?"
Elira nodded slowly.
"It was faint at first. Just a child's lullaby. She thought her aunt had the TV on downstairs. But the house was quiet. Her aunt had gone to bed early, locked in her room. Mira followed the sound—to the attic."
"She crept up, barefoot. Each stair creaked, but nothing stirred. When she reached the attic, the humming grew louder. She touched the mirror's cloth. It was warm. Her fingers trembled, but she lifted it."
"And there she was. Her reflection."
Aleksei interrupted, "Still her?"
Elira paused. "Almost."
"The girl in the mirror had her face. Her clothes. But her eyes—were slightly too wide. Her smile, just a little too still. Her reflection didn't mimic her perfectly anymore. If Mira tilted her head left, the reflection would wait a second… and then tilt right."
Aleksei's glass was still now. "Good. Slow-burn. Psychological. Continue."
"She touched the glass. It was cold. The reflection smiled wider, then mouthed something. No sound. Just lips moving."
"Let me out."
Elira met Aleksei's eyes.
"Mira stumbled back. Her heart was racing. But curiosity—the kind that sinks its claws in and never lets go—kept her rooted. The reflection repeated the words again. Let me out. Then the girl in the mirror reached forward… and tapped the glass from the inside."
Aleksei clicked his tongue. "She doesn't run, does she?"
"She does," Elira said. "But the mirror remembers."
"She ran. Slammed the attic door. Didn't sleep. In the morning, the mirror was covered again. But things changed. Her reflection in the bathroom began to blink out of sync. At school, she saw her reflection in windows smiling when she wasn't. It was stalking her."
Aleksei's voice dropped. "So the mirror girl escaped?"
"Not yet."
"She asked her aunt about it. The woman grew pale. Told her the mirror had once belonged to a woman who claimed to see other worlds in glass. The woman went mad—spoke to her own reflection every day, convinced she was living in the wrong reality."
"One day, the woman vanished. The only thing left behind was the mirror. Since then, anyone who lived in that house started to… change."
Elira lowered her voice, eyes never leaving the page.
"Mira became obsessed. She stopped going to school. Stopped sleeping. Every night, she'd stand in front of the mirror, whispering questions. The reflection would answer. Her voice. But not her thoughts."
"Then one night, the reflection spoke aloud."
Aleksei sat up straighter.
"'You're tired, Mira,' the girl in the mirror said. 'You're not meant for this world. You've always been wrong here. Let me take your place. You can rest. Forever.'"
Aleksei whispered, "And?"
"Mira cried. Said no. Said she wasn't crazy. The reflection tilted her head, and her eyes began to bleed—thick black tears that slid down the mirror's inside. Then, with a smile, she reached out again…"
Elira paused for breath. The fire had dimmed slightly.
"This time, her hand came through."
Aleksei didn't move. His face had gone cold, sharp with intrigue.
"Mira screamed. But no one came. Her aunt's door was locked. The mirror girl dragged herself out slowly, limbs cracking, joints twisting like they hadn't been used in decades. Mira backed into the corner. 'You'll thank me,' the reflection said. 'It's quieter there. In the glass.'"
"And Mira… was pulled in."
"Her body, her soul, her voice. She beat at the glass from the inside, screamed, but no one could hear her anymore. The mirror girl—now in Mira's skin—brushed her hair, went downstairs, and made breakfast."
Elira shut the notebook with a soft snap.
"The aunt never noticed the difference. And neither did anyone else."
---
Aleksei was very still.
Then he exhaled, slow and low. "Good. I like this one."
Elira tilted her head. "Because it's dark?"
"No," he said. "Because it's truthful. Mirrors show us the lies we believe. But what if they stopped playing along? What if they showed us what we actually are?"
She didn't reply.
Aleksei set his glass down, eyes narrowing. "You made her go mad slowly. That's good. Subtle. Psychological horror takes more skill than blood and gore. Though I do love a little blood." He looked her over. "You said the mirror girl bled from her eyes. Black tears. That's unusual."
"It's a symbol," Elira said quietly. "Loss of identity. Of soul."
He nodded. "And do you believe in mirrors that can trap a soul, Elira?"
Her voice was quieter now. "I think… some reflections show things we aren't ready to see."
Aleksei studied her. "You surprise me. You've been… consistent. Each story darker than the last. I wonder—how far you'll go."
There was something dangerous in that smile.
But Elira just met his gaze and asked, "Do you want another?"
Aleksei leaned back, amused. "No. Not tonight. You've fed the beast well enough."