"Mirrors show us only the surface. It's in the unseen spaces behind the reflection that our monsters, and perhaps our salvation, lie."
Based on a idea by Horror73
Marcel Dubois never liked returning to New Orleans, least of all under these circumstances. An oppressive haze of heat and humidity cloaked the city, pressing down as heavy as the grief and guilt simmering inside him. Beside him, his sister, Vivienne, dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. Though it wasn't unusual for New Orleans to lose a soul, this one hit differently.
"She only meant well," Vivienne said, breaking the thick silence that had shrouded them since they left the airport.
Marcel clenched his jaw, glancing away from his sister's crocodile tears. "Don't try that, Vivienne. We both know that mirror in your apartment cost more than Grandmére spent on my entire education."
Growing up, they'd always been opposites. While he was buried in books, Vivienne perfected the art of manipulation, coaxing expensive baubles and lavish trips from their doting grandmother. He was grateful for his grandmother's sacrifices, even though it came at Vivienne’s expense. Or so he'd thought.
The reading of the will proved him wrong. Grandmére had seen Vivienne for who she truly was. Marcel inherited the grand Victorian house on Esplanade Avenue, its balconies wreathed in iron lace. While Vivienne received… a mirror. Not even a particularly pretty one. It was a towering thing, dark wood gleaming dully, the reflective surface mottled with age. Her outrage when the lawyer read the directive had been the most genuine emotion he'd seen from her in years.
He found the house just as Grandmére had left it – heavy velvet drapes swathed in protective coverings, antique clocks ticked away under shrouded figures, and every mirror concealed beneath linen cloths. Even in her passing, Grandmére clung to the superstitions whispered down through generations – that when a spirit departs this world, a carelessly uncovered mirror might become a trap, a prison.
Every mirror but one.
An errant breeze lifted the edge of the cloth obscuring the ornate mirror above the living room fireplace. In its surface, dust motes caught the afternoon sunlight and danced like fireflies. He pulled the cloth away fully, the old tales rising within him like swamp mist. In its reflection, the room's dim decay felt a shade more oppressive. Something within that mirrored space shivered – a trick of the light or an unease within himself?
The funeral itself was a blur of mourners. Their Dubois name carried old weight; faces filled the somber house in sympathy, some genuine, many merely curious. When it finally ended, and the last well-wishing aunt sailed out the door, exhaustion wrapped around Marcel like a lead cloak.
"Do you really think we need to deliver that ghastly thing tonight?" Vivienne asked, eyeing the hulking mirror wrapped in moving blankets. It leaned against the back of the moving truck a hired driver stood beside.
"Yes," Marcel said flatly. "It was Grandmére's request. We honor it."
Her sharp words died unspoken as he met her gaze. The house on Esplanade was his now – their childhood quarrels had no power here. She tossed her head, Vivienne-shaped defiance burning in her eyes, but she said nothing as the men loaded the mirror.
That night, back in his newly familiar bedroom, the old worry circled in his belly. Every fiber of his being rebelled against what he was about to do – remove the coverings and look into the mirrors he'd diligently avoided. He'd never believed in the old folklore, dismissed it as the remnants of bygone superstition. Yet, as his hand fell upon the cool linen covering his dresser mirror, a tremor coursed through him.
Pulling the fabric back, he met his own reflection with forced stoicism. He was different from those days – no longer the gawky, bookish boy, but a man with the marks of ambition etched on his face. A writer, successful by most measures. He owed that to Grandmére. Moving through the house, Marcel repeated the process. Bathroom mirrors, small decorative mirrors by the entryway, all revealed nothing but his own harried visage and the undisturbed house behind him. Until he reached the living room.
Beneath the sheet, the towering mirror was a dark monolith. Something about it made the fine hairs on his neck stand on end. Even though it was only dusk, shadows clung to its corners. Marcel steeled himself and snatched the fabric away.
At first, it was merely his reflection, and an echo of disappointment whispered through him. Old wives' tales were just that, after all. But then, something snagged his gaze. An anomaly within the polished glass: a sliver of pale fabric, a flicker of blonde hair. Vivienne.
Marcel blinked hard, but the image persisted. She stood stiffly within a room he did not recognize, an expression of raw terror marring her usual veneer of elegance. But what chilled him to the bone was what stood just behind her.
Grandmére.
Yet this was not the serene grandmother he remembered. Her expression was one of contorted fury, her hands gnarled claws as they reached for an invisible throat. As Vivienne began to thrash, hands scrambling uselessly at empty air, a scream bubbled up in his throat. It died when her figure wavered like heat haze, fading as an unseen power dragged her toward the back of the mirrored room.
He knew with bone-deep certainty that was no simple reflection he was seeing. His grandmother's rage, Vivienne's greed – somehow that ugly dance reflected into the mirror had made this…thing… real. The soul trap worked in reverse, a door flung wide upon a spirit's fury.
The image within the glass flickered again. Grandmére’s spectral gaze turned toward him, the echo of her voice slicing through the silence of the room.
"Save her, Marcel. It's the only way."
Before he could question, rationalize, or allow fear to fully encompass him, he dove headfirst into the mirror.
For an instant, there was nothing but cold and a sickening sense of vertigo. Then, icy needles plunged into his skin, tearing him back to an almost painful state of awareness. He lay sprawled on something hard and unforgiving, a dim luminescence painting the surroundings. The walls had a disconcerting, oily sheen to them, slick and clammy. It took him a long moment to process that those weren't walls at all, but the polished edges of the warped mirror from within. He'd fallen into the soul trap.
In front of him, just as he'd last seen her, Vivienne thrashed about wordlessly. With every tug, with every inch she was dragged further into the abyss, more of her faded. Fear had given way to wide-eyed insanity in her face – now more a mask of horror than an image of his sister.
Grandmére stalked past Marcel, her eyes burning pits of anger. Tendrils of gray mist clung to her, whispering ancient, vengeful chants. He'd spent his life escaping old New Orleans and its clinging grip of myth and magic. Yet here he was, plunged into the darkest recesses of a tale spun to frighten disobedient children.
As Grandmére raised her hand again, preparing to pull Vivienne deeper into the oblivion of the mirror, Marcel stumbled to his feet. "Grandmére, stop!" he shouted.
The spirit turned towards him, surprise rippling through the hatred warping her spectral form.
"She doesn't deserve this," he continued, trying to ignore the gnawing fear crawling down his spine. "Vivienne did terrible things, but this… this is monstrous."
The thing that wore Grandmére's face chuckled darkly. "The girl stole from me in life, why should it be any different in death?"
He shook his head, remembering. "You raised us. Taught us. Even when I disagreed with you, even when I hated the way you spoiled her," he took a shaky breath, "I know…I know you loved us."
"Love?" she snarled, but some of the malice seemed to drain from her figure. The tendrils of shadow curled in, retreating slightly.
Marcel pressed his advantage. "Vivienne never learned how to love like you did. Not truly. Her greed was born out of that need she felt, that lack you tried to fill with things."
"Enough of this!" the spirit’s anger swelled again, the misty body growing sharper, "She shall pay!"
"What good will vengeance do?" He asked, his voice barely a whisper. "You died angry, trapped in the memory of her wrongs. Is this how you wish to exist for eternity? Filled with such hate?"
A flicker of the grandmother he knew passed through her spectral eyes – uncertainty, even doubt. "I…" her voice wavered, a hint of her normal cadence piercing the echoing rage.
Suddenly the spectral figure was not one, but two: The angry ghoul that wished to inflict further torment, and the woman she had been in life, her eyes sad and weary. It was as if his words had split the reflection open, releasing her true spirit from the darkness it had consumed.
Marcel could hardly catch his breath before Grandmére's spirit reached out, not towards Vivienne this time, but towards him. Her ethereal touch was like a wisp of frozen winter air on his skin, but this time without the burning malice.
"You were always the wise one, child," she rasped. "Even if I could not always see it. Take her. This place holds…regrets… not meant for the likes of you."
The pull of the mirror on Vivienne weakened as Grandmére spoke. Marcel watched in disbelief as his sister – fading moments ago – solidified, color flushing back into her face. She stumbled onto her knees, gasping ragged breaths. Relief washed over him, but it was tainted with another surge of disquiet. The mirror world still hummed with an ominous thrum, the shadows gathering menacingly once more.
"Grandmére, it's not over," his voice cracked with anxiety.
Just as quickly as the flicker of his grandmother had manifested, an all-consuming rage took her place. "You dare?" she shrieked, "They belong to me!"
The tendrils of shadow shot across the space, wrapping around both Vivienne and Marcel with icy talons. Vivienne screamed, eyes wide with a fresh surge of terror. He struggled, but the power in those spectral limbs left him as helpless as a babe.
Suddenly, there was a blinding flash of light. From the fragments of his scattered childhood memories, whispers of old incantations rose to his lips. "Espri beni, proteje nou! Gardiens mistik, libere nou!"
Decades since he'd spoken those old Creole words – protection prayers woven with Catholic iconography, a mix as unique as New Orleans herself. Yet the moment he did, the shadowy grasp faltered, burning his skin where they made contact.
"You think those child's charms will stop me?" his grandmother roared, her voice crackling with otherworldly power.
Her monstrous hands clamped down again, dragging them both back towards the depths of the mirror, away from any hope of escape. He fought her pull, every muscle burning, and cast about desperately for anything to use as an anchor.
His fingers brushed against the carved edge of the mirror frame. Rough wood met his skin, grounding him momentarily. He dug his fingers hard into the cool wood, seeking strength, stability, reality. His eyes scoured the spectral room, and landed on a single point hanging on the reflective wall: Grandmére’s rosary beads.
It was the only solid item within sight. "Vivienne!" he yelled above her terrified screeches. "Grab the beads!"
She obeyed more out of sheer panic than understanding. Even when Vivienne's fingers closed around the blessed wood, there was barely a hint of resistance to the overpowering, vengeful spirit. He could see despair replacing fear on Vivienne’s face as she was dragged across the spectral floor.
He focused. Every memory he had of the woman who'd raised him, every story she told, every moment he'd felt loved by his strong, fierce grandmother rose within him, not as images, but as pure, concentrated feeling. And with a final, desperate heave, he poured that love into the rosary clutched tightly in Vivienne's hand.
For an instant, the mirror room was ablaze with searing white light. It felt like a physical blow, forcing Marcel to squeeze his eyes shut. The spectral hands around his body disintegrated into tendrils of smoke. There was a horrific sound, like brittle glass shattering, then silence.
When he dared to reopen his eyes, the mirror world was empty. Vivienne lay panting and hiccuping at his feet, but safe. All that remained of Grandmére were the rosary beads on the floor, and the lingering scent of burnt ozone.
Helping Vivienne up, he turned towards the exit of the warped room. With agonizing effort, they moved in an unsteady two-step towards the reflective plane of the mirror. There was a flash, a jolt like slamming into a solid wall, but then—they stumbled back into the dim living room of his grandmother's house.
The weight of what they had survived crashed over him. Vivienne slumped against the mirror, sobs wracking her body. Her gaze was vacant, staring into the depths of the glass without seeing. He didn't speak, knowing there were no words to bridge the gulf of what they had experienced.
Marcel walked through the silent house, finally reaching the grand entryway. As he opened the door, the humid New Orleans air hit him like a blast furnace. There on the front step, in neat brown packaging, he saw Grandmére's notary documents. Inside, an official transfer of power: he was to sell the antique mirror his grandmother had sent Vivienne.
In that moment, he understood. Not every act of kindness is free of agenda, not every warning free of manipulation. This had been Grandmére's final lesson.
Marcel went back inside, closing the front door behind him. He would never look into a mirror in the same way again. That night, while Vivienne slept fitfully on the old velvet settee, he searched the house. Finally, in the basement, he found what he needed – thick swaths of fabric and heavy chains.
They left before dawn, the truck carrying Vivienne away to a future Marcel no longer wanted part in. At the first rest stop he found, he chained the massive mirror to a roadside oak, covering it with the fabric until he could arrange better disposal. His hands wouldn't stop trembling.
There would be time for him to process the guilt, the lingering fear, perhaps even find a sliver of forgiveness for Vivienne somewhere amid the ruins of their bond. Now, the only thing he knew was that he needed to get as far away from New Orleans, and those soul-trapping mirrors, as possible.