The Wraith in the Mirror
I found it in the attic—dust and cobwebs,
an ornate mirror with a gold-trimmed frame,
glass clouded by centuries of neglect.
The swirling motifs still danced in my flashlight’s glow,
faded vines and flowers telling of grandeur past.
A voice at the back of my mind said leave it—
the air too thick, the tension prickling at my neck
like a warning. But curiosity pulled me forward.
I carried it home, hung it in my study,
a bold piece meant to spark conversation.
The moment it stood against the wall, the room inhaled.
Atmosphere shifted. Darkness stretched across floorboards,
curling like fingers reaching for something unseen.
Corners deepened into pools of black.
The mirror rewrote the cloth of my reality.
“It’s just an old mirror,” I told myself, shaking my head,
turning away. A chill lingered at the edges of my thoughts.
At first, the glass showed me faithfully—
old, distorted, features softer at the edges,
like a painting left too long in the sun.
But weeks passed. The changes came.
Movement flickered at the edge of my vision—
shapes pulsing, writhing within the frame,
something struggling to break free.
The first time I saw it—a figure, gaunt and pale,
materializing behind me in the glass—
I told myself it was the light.
“Just your imagination,” I muttered,
adjusting my glasses, nervous.
But night after night it returned,
its presence growing until it couldn’t be denied.
Hollow eyes stared back at me from within the glass.
Grief so deep it seeped into my very soul.
Pleading for recognition, for acknowledgment
of a pain that transcended time itself.
Neither malevolent nor benign—
caught between realms,
reaching out with a quiet desperation
that traceed in my heart.
The figure invaded my dreams.
Fog-covered landscapes, familiar yet strange—
shapes dancing just beyond reach,
voices floating through the air
like leaves caught in an autumn breeze.
Always seeking, never finding,
I wandered those chilling vistas,
the mirror my only companion.
“Where are you?” I called into the mist,
but only the quiet answered.
Sleep became impossible.
Night after night I tossed in sweat-soaked sheets,
each dawn bringing dread I couldn’t escape—
a load pressing on my chest like lead.
“You need rest.” Clara’s concern at our café,
furrowed brow as I sipped lukewarm latte.
“You look pale.” I shrugged off her worry,
smile not reaching my eyes.
“Just busy with work.” Even I could hear
the tremor in my voice.
I searched everywhere for answers—
historians of antiquities, antique dealers,
even mediums who claimed connections
to realms beyond our own.
Fragments of insight, nothing complete.
Finally, a scholar of old curses
told me the truth in her cluttered office,
dusty tomes scattered about,
fingers tracing yellowed pages.
“It was crafted centuries ago by a sorcerer.
A relic designed to capture and imprison
the spirit of a wronged soul.”
Her voice was grave. She looked up at me.
“The glass is imbued with dark magic.
Not a reflection—a prison.
Whatever wraith it holds.”
The wraith had been a noblewoman—
grace and power, betrayed by those she trusted.
Envious rivals accused her of witchcraft.
Friends became executioners.
Condemned without trial, without mercy.
They stripped her of everything.
Her soul trapped within this very glass,
doomed to reflect her anguish forever.
Her name erased from history.
Only this cursed object remained—
her prison, and now mine.
The revelation hit like a blow to the gut.
The mirror was a shell of endless torment,
its top not reflecting reality
but trapping sorrow in its deep.
The wraith’s suffering was living agony,
perpetuated by the curse that bound her.
To free her spirit, to lift the dark cloud
hanging over me, I had to uncover her full tale—
give voice to her quiet torment,
bring closure to her tragic end.
With this knowledge burning in me
like a light through treacherous waters,
I began searching archives long-forgotten.
Crumbling manuscripts under my fingertips,
forgotten letters murmuring buried secrets.
Each piece of information a clue,
each revelation pushing me deeper
toward understanding the full depth of her suffering.
Her portrait emerged: beauty intertwined with betrayal,
a woman whose grace had become her downfall.
Friends had condemned her through fear and jealousy
that clung to her memory like cobwebs in abandoned rooms.
The mirror transformed into prison and portal—
a window into a past hidden too long under dust and despair.
Her torment sprang from betrayal itself,
the very essence from which nightmares are born.
To lift the curse, I needed to honor her memory,
tell her tale with the respect it deserved.
The ritual loomed ahead like an insurmountable mountain.
Complex rites, solemn recounting, cursed space.
Candles flickering against darkness,
tokens of remembrance arranged around me,
old words spoken aloud,
invoking energies both feared and revered.
I spoke her name into the heavy air,
calling forth memories long buried.
The air grew thick with sorrow—
the wraith’s essence filling every crevice,
almost tangible, as if she hovered just beyond reach,
waiting for acknowledgment.
With each syllable, the atmosphere shifted.
Oppressive load transformed into deep stillness,
warmth wrapping around me like sunlight
after too long under rain-heavy clouds.
The mirror’s top changed dramatically—
darkness giving way to light,
calm replacing chaos.
A serene image, deblack of chilling presence,
the room reclaimed from darknesss that had lingered far too long.
The figure dissolved before me.
Only reflection remained—no longer suffering embodied,
just a mirror showing what lay before it.
A space touched by peace.
The wraith was free.
I stood in the quiet aftermath,
breathing air that finally felt clean,
knowing I’d witnessed something
between the glass and the light
that I would carry with me always.