Mildred’s house was a sentient beast, a living, breathing thing composed of secrets from decades past. Magic coursing through its veins, memories clinging like a soul stitched into its stone limbs. It called to me with that old, familiar comfort, yet a strange tension hung between us. Something had shifted, a scar in its soul, ineffable and indelible. Whatever had changed between us was beyond words, woven into the bones of the house itself.

Or was it me? Had I become something different, something unrecognizable to these walls? Maybe it was nothing. I shook off the thought, craving the bitter edge of coffee and something to quiet the gnawing hunger slowly twisting in my gut.

The façade was a battleground of life and decay, where lush green ivy fought against the encroaching monochromatic Rift Soot. The vines, vibrant and pulsating with life, were a defiant contrast to the world’s creeping dullness.

A young woman awaited me in the foyer, her garb as eclectic as the house itself. “Hello, Jack. Mildred is waiting.”

She exuded an ethereal, otherworldly charm, reminiscent of a forest nymph. Her honey-blonde hair flowed in soft waves, adorned with small flowers and feathers woven into the strands. Her eyes, a mesmerizing shade of turquoise, sparkled with an almost mystical curiosity, as if she could see beyond the ordinary.

Dressed in a flowing, bohemian-style dress of deep purples and blues, she moved with a dreamy, almost floating grace. Around her neck hung an assortment of eclectic charms and crystals, each one glinting softly in the light. Bangles of various metals jingled lightly on her wrists, their gentle music accompanying her every motion.

Her demeanor was serene and welcoming, with a hint of whimsical unpredictability. As she spoke, there was a lilt to her voice, and her words seemed to carry deeper meanings, inviting those around her to see the world through a lens of wonder and possibility.

She led me through the grand entrance, our footsteps echoing softly against the marble floors. The hallways were a labyrinth of elegant arches and intricate carvings, each turn more enchanting than the last.

Mildred Marshal, the blind seer and guardian of this sanctuary, greeted me with a smile that reached into my soul. Her pure white eyes, veiled by delicate lace, seemed to pierce through my very essence. “Thank you, Molly,” she said.

The young woman bowed slightly and vanished into another corridor.

“Hello, Jack.” Her voice carried a mix of warmth and quiet authority, like a velvet glove hiding iron. “My door is always open for you, you know that.” She paused, then let a little of the iron slip through. “The rules remain the same.”

I gave a somber nod. “Understood.”

Mildred’s home was a haven for all: Normies, Hexborn, and the Devil Kissed alike. It welcomed members of the Midnight Council, the Guild, and outsiders, offering refuge in a world that had succumbed to darkness. Inside this charming relic of a bygone era, vibrant plants thrived, their natural defenses warding off the pervasive Rift Soot that plagued the outside world. Stepping inside felt like entering an enchanted oasis compared to the desolate surroundings beyond its walls, like stepping into an acrylic painting.

The grand foyer opened into a spacious living area, where the walls were adorned with rich tapestries depicting mythical creatures and shelves overflowed with books and trinkets from around the world. The air was sweet and inviting, carrying the subtle scent of blooming flowers and herbal concoctions that seemed to infuse the space with an atmosphere of serene enchantment.

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“It’s so good to see you,” Mildred said, her voice exuding genuine warmth as she greeted me with a hug. “I’ve been seeing quite a lot of you lately, so I was wondering when you’d finally stop by.”

I managed a tired smile. “I need your help.”

“I know,” she replied, her tone steady, almost parental. “You’ve wandered deep into shadows and need a lighthouse to guide you out. But remember, there are things lurking in the dark—more than you can imagine. Be careful of the questions you ask. The wrong ones lead to answers you don’t want... but the right ones.” She paused, a wry smile flickering. “Well...”

I daresay, you’re even more batty than I remembered, Frank muttered, his voice slipping through my thoughts with a dry edge.

Mildred chuckled knowingly. “Hello, Frank.” She inclined her head toward an antique mirror on the wall, where faint but brilliant amber eyes watched us both with a curious indifference. “Jack, be a dear and step a little closer to the Looking Glass, would you? My eyes grow wearier with each passing year.”

I obliged, moving closer, my eyes tracing the intricate gold filigree around the mirror—a network of twisting vines and leaves, almost too delicate, as if they might crumble under a breath. Mirrors were sly things, weren’t they? They whispered back whatever you wanted, but the truth always hovered somewhere else, just beyond the frame. They held onto shadows too greedily, drank light too eagerly.

The world distorted there. Not quite lies, but truths mangled, contorted to fit neatly in a gilded frame. Linger just a moment too long, though, and you might see it shift, a subtle wrongness settling into the eyes that shouldn’t be yours. Because what stares back isn’t always you—sometimes something is waiting, watching, aching for the one foolish enough to look too close.

The reflection rippled, bending as though the glass were liquid rather than solid, and there Frank was—woven into the shadows of my leather jacket, his presence clinging like smoke. His face ghosted beneath the collar, eyes hollow and gleaming, peering out from the creases and folds like something restless and deeply unwell. He seemed to hover there, not quite inside the mirror, not fully outside it either, drifting in the periphery like a dark aura that might vanish if I dared to blink—but I didn’t dare.

I stared at the demon with its angular cheekbones, rough ruddy skin, and piercing eyes that flickered with a subtle glow. His hair was slicked back, lending him a debonair yet dangerous look. His fingers, tipped with faintly clawed nails, drummed against the jacket, as though he were plotting something just out of reach.

Ah, that’s better, he purred, his thoughts brushing through my mind like the stroke of cold steel.

From somewhere deep in my mind, Frank grumbled a greeting. His voice carried its usual air of confidence and indifference, but there was an unmistakable flicker of respect threaded through it. He nodded. Mildred.

As Frank spoke into my mind, his mouth moved in the mirror, a strange synchrony that sent shivers through me.

It felt surreal for the demon to address someone other than myself. I was accustomed to being the mediator. Mildred and Frank shared something rare, a tether curled between this world and the next. For Mildred, the veil had always been thin, the boundaries porous, as though her soul had been poured only halfway into her body, caught between breaths, and the spirits seemed to sense it. They clung to her presence like moths to flame, drawn to that peculiar imbalance.

With Frank, her connection ran even deeper, a resonance that hummed along invisible threads. Their bond wasn’t one of words or gestures; it was a quiet understanding between two souls neither here nor there, a pact of silence in the spaces between, where ghosts and shadows lingered.

The air around them crackled with the energy of otherworldly forces. Mildred’s sightless milky white eyes seemed to soften as Frank spoke. The gruff exterior of the demon, usually as hard as iron, melted, just a bit. I watched the exchange between them through the mirror.

Still playing hostess to wayward souls, I see, Frank said.

Mildred’s smile widened, her eyes sparkling. “And you, Frank, still haunting poor Jack. You haven’t driven him completely mad yet, have you?”

Not for lack of trying. Jack’s stubborn as a mule.

“Takes one to know one, I suppose.”

Touché, Frank replied, his voice curling with a wry smirk.