I step back from the mirror, my pulse hammering in my throat. My reflection looks normal again, but the memory of what I just saw is burned into my brain.

It moved without me. It spoke without me.

Soon.

The word coils in my gut like a snake. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my breath to steady. When I open them again, the reflection is still me. Still normal.

Unease prickles across my skin.

I need answers.

Wrapping my arms around myself, I leave the house, not even bothering to lock the door behind me. As I cross the lawn, sweat beads at the back of my neck.

The houses in this neighborhood are close, but the walk next door feels like a mile. I knock twice, stuffing my hands into my back pockets to keep them from shaking. A moment later, the door creaks open, and there she is—short silver hair, warm eyes that seem to see straight through me.

"Well, this is a nice surprise," Birdie says. A small brown dog yaps at her feet. By the way she's smiling, it almost looks like she's expecting me. "Come on in, darlin'. Don't mind Wilbur. He's all bark, no bite."

I hesitate before stepping inside. It smells like cinnamon and something floral, old but comforting. Shelves crammed with books line the walls, and a crocheted blanket drapes over the back of a well-worn couch. A cluster of perfectly preserved Yorkies—each with a tiny bow tied neatly around its neck—sits proudly on the mantel, like a panel of judges overseeing the room. It's cozy, lived-in. Nothing like Mom's.

"Your timing's perfect. I just made a pitcher of iced tea."

Birdie leads me to the kitchen and gestures for me to sit. She pours the pale brown liquid into a glass and pushes it toward me, the ice cubes clinking together as it slides across the table.

"You look like you've got some questions." It's not a guess.

I nod, my fingers tightening around the cold drink. "It's about my mom. About... the way she was when I was younger."

Birdie exhales as she settles into the chair across from me. Wilbur curls into a ball beneath her seat. "Your mother was a complicated woman. But she wasn't crazy, if that's what you're wondering."

"Then what was she?"

She watches me for a long moment, then lowers her voice. "She was scared."

I swallow hard, a lump catching in my throat. "Of what?"

Birdie glances toward the hallway, as if someone might be listening. Then she sighs. "She believed in something. A legend of sorts from the village where she grew up. She called them Ginaya."

I frown. "Ginaya?"

She nods. "Did she talk much about the Philippines?"

I shake my head.

Her hand curls around her own drink. "They're creatures that live in mirrors. They copy us—our movements, our expressions, our voices. But they aren't us. And if they watch us long enough, if they learn enough, they can take our place."

Her words sink in, slow and heavy. "You're saying my mom thought something in the mirror was trying to replace her?"

"Not her." She shakes her head, her eyes fixing on mine. "You."

The room feels smaller all of a sudden. The air thicker. I force myself to breathe, but it's shallow, uneven. "But you said it's a legend, right? It's not real."

"I believe she believed it."

She leans forward in her chair, the muted sunlight through the curtain casting shadows across her face. Her voice is slow. Deliberate.

"Years ago, she told me it happened to someone she knew. She was a teenager at the time, and the young boy started acting strangely. It wasn't obvious at first. He wouldn't answer to his own name, and he'd laugh at inappropriate moments. When you'd speak to him, he wouldn't blink. People whispered, but his parents—they made excuses. Maybe he'd caught a virus that made him... different. Or his fluctuating hormones were throwing things off balance."

Birdie rubs at a spot on the table as if she's trying to scrub something away.

"And then one day, his mother found him sitting in front of the mirror, not moving. She called to him, shook him, but—nothing. He just sat there with an odd smile and stared into the glass. Just as she turned to run for help, he did something—"

I'm holding my breath. "What did he do?"

An obvious swallow moves down her throat. "He moved, but his reflection didn't move with him. And then the next day, he was gone. His parents swore up and down he ran away, but—who knows..." She shrugs and takes a sip of her tea.

A sick feeling unfurls in my stomach. "And my mom actually believed this?"

Birdie nods. "She saw something in the mirror that day. Something watching. It still looked like the little boy, but it wasn't him. Not anymore. And when it smiled at her—she said it was too wide. Not normal." She pauses. "And there was something else. Something I'll never forget... She said it had too many teeth."

An unnatural smile with too many teeth. The image manifests in my head and I shudder. "How did she see this? Was she there?"

Birdie gives me a sad smile. "It happened to her brother."

Shock forces me back in the chair. Her brother. My uncle.

Mom never spoke of her family. Never. She didn't want to talk about them. Once when I asked why, she never answered, like she didn't hear me.

But she did.

"When she suspected it was happening to you," Birdie continues, "she broke every mirror in the house. And when that wasn't enough, she moved you both across the country. But you were so young, and you didn't understand. So, she made rules for every reflective surface and the one mirror you begged her to keep—never look for too long, never turn your back, and always keep it covered. It wasn't paranoia, Maricel. It was protection."

My fingers dig into the glass so hard I'm afraid it's going to break. But I can't stop myself. I need to feel the cold against my skin. I need to ground myself with something I know is real. "Did my mom ever tell you where these creatures come from?"

Birdie shakes her head. "Some say they're lost spirits that are looking for a body to wear. Others think they're something older than ghosts—things that were never human to begin with. Your mother believed they're drawn to broken things—people who've lost something important. A parent. A child. Themselves."

A sharp cold crawls over my skin. I fold my arms across my chest, smothering the goosebumps along my flesh.

"They don't take just anyone," she adds. "They wait until you're weak. Until you're uncertain. That's when they creep in, stretching inside of you until there's nothing left of who you were."

"But why me?" I press on. "I don't understand."

She releases a long sigh. "Your mother lost a lot before she had you, didn't she?"

My body stiffens. Another topic that's off limits. I don't talk about it. About the child my mother had before me. The one that didn't make it.

"Grief leaves cracks," Birdie explains. "Your mom was afraid something slipped through one of hers. That it noticed you, even before you were born."

"If it wanted me so badly, why didn't it follow me when I left?"

Her expression darkens. "It couldn't. Your mother made sure of that. She made it promises. Maybe she found some way to keep it locked to that place. To tie it to the glass there."

"But she's not there anymore," I reason. "What's stopping it from coming back?"

Birdie doesn't answer. She doesn't have to. I already know.

Nothing is stopping it. Not one damn thing.

A twisting ache blooms in my chest. My mom—her frantic warnings, her desperation. Why she told me to leave and never come back. It wasn't insanity. It was fear. For me.

And now she's gone.

"At first, I thought it was a bunch of hogwash, but your mother absolutely believed it. And who am I to judge?" Birdie shrugs. "Every dog I've ever owned has been skinned and rebuilt like little, furry Frankensteins that decorate my front room. But they sure are easy to take care of."

I'm supposed to laugh at this, but I can't. Taxidermied Yorkies are one thing, but this is different.

My throat tightens. I don't want to ask this question, but I have to. I need to know. "Birdie, where did the police—find my mom?"

She hesitates as if she's not sure if she should share. "She was in the attic."

A bolt of ice shoots through my veins. "The attic?"

She nods. "She spent a lot of time up there, near the end."

My hands go numb. That's where I found the mirror. The one that was covered. And the blanket over it... it'd been pulled away.

I push away from the table, the chair scraping against the floor. "I—I should go. Thank you for your time, Birdie. I appreciate it—and the tea too ," I say, glancing at the still-full glass.

"Any time, darlin'." Birdie doesn't try to stop me. She just watches as I scramble toward the door, the weight of her words pressing down on me.

That night, I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the antique's silhouette in the living room. The story Birdie shared plays on repeat in my head. With each passing moment, the churning in my stomach intensifies, my muscles tensing like they're ready to snap.

I could smash it. Throw the pieces in the trash. But that didn't work for Mom. She moved us. Again and again. Until she realized it wasn't going away.

I don't want to look, but I can't stop myself. Slowly, I get out of bed and wander down the dark hallway.

Moonlight slants through the windows, filling the room with an eerie, silver glow. At first, it's just my reflection. Pale face, wide eyes, the faint rise and fall of my breath.

Then I see it. Something moving beneath my skin.

A bulge, just under my cheekbone. It ripples, like fingers pressing from the inside. My breath hitches, my pulse hammering. It moves again, trailing toward my jaw.

I choke on a gasp and stumble back, slamming into the floor lamp. It rattles back and forth and nearly topples over.

I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on my breaths. In. Out. In. Out.

This isn't real. It's not real.

When I force myself to look again, the bulge is gone. My skin is smooth. Normal. But the terror is still here.

I sleep with the light on.

🪞

Approximate chapter word count: 1815
Approximate total word count: 7580