Chapter 8: Teeth

The attic was colder than the rest of the house. At the center sat a chair facing a mirror.

And on the mirror, teeth. Carved into the frame, smiling wide. Human teeth.

When I looked in, Sam was already there.

Smiling.

And this time, I smiled back.

Chapter 9: Things That Echo

I left the attic in a trance, the wooden floor breathing beneath my feet. The hallway smelled of smoke, though nothing burned.

The house groaned like it was thinking. Remembering.

Downstairs, every mirror had shifted. Turned. Tilted. As if they’d watched what happened in the attic and whispered about it behind their glassy backs.

Then I heard it: my own voice, echoing from somewhere deep in the walls.

Except it wasn’t repeating something I had said.

It was saying what I was about to say.

Chapter 10: The Birthday Room

The door near the kitchen used to be a pantry. Now it opened into a child’s bedroom.

The wallpaper was new. Balloons and party hats. A cake sat on a table, still warm. Seven candles, lit. Wax dripped upward.

On the bed sat a boy. Face down. Unmoving.

I stepped closer. The boy wore my childhood clothes.

Then he lifted his head. It was me. Younger. And he whispered, “Don’t blow them out.”

The candles flared and turned black.

Chapter 11: Behind the Mirror

I ran to the hallway mirror—the first one I saw when I arrived. My reflection was gone.

In its place: Sam. Sitting in the attic chair. Smiling. Always smiling.

“Time is folding,” he said. “Mirrors are hungry.”

He reached toward me. The glass rippled.

I stumbled back.

And saw, for just a second, behind the mirror. A room made of glass. An infinite web of reflections.

And in every one, a version of me.

Screaming.

Sam didn’t move. He just stood there, half-shadow, half-smile. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. The mouth that wasn’t mine trembled like it didn’t know how to form words.

“You’re almost ready,” Sam whispered.

“For what?” I finally rasped.

He stepped closer. His reflection trailed behind him like smoke, flickering in the mirror with teeth. “To take my place. Or… for me to take yours.”

I reached for the lamp on my nightstand and hurled it at him. It passed through like he was fog.

“Don’t fight it,” he said, fading.

Then he was gone.

But the mirror wasn’t.

And now, it was whispering.