I am the creature who lurks in the cursed mirror.

It’s not a noble task, nor is it a fulfilling one. It is simply what I must do, as the Gravekeeper’s servants. I do not have a single possession to my name- the only ‘thing’ I can claim to possess is the arbitrary amount of fools I have consigned to the same fate I am saddled with.

Every night, a starry-eyed child thinking themselves an adventurer graces these halls. They amble through this tomb, waving sticks and mimicking their oh-so-great heroes. Yet in mere hours, they find themselves either scared witless or bored to death by the lack of intrigue.

Rarely, an ignoble bandit with more greed than sense will interrupt the monotony to pilfer graves for what treasure may remain. Seldom do they think to simply avoid the rumored horrors- though I suppose I wouldn’t know if they were a vast minority.

As the Gravekeeper enchanted me to do many moons ago, I beckon them with promises of their every desire. I wear their face, speak in their dialects, and murmur what they wish to hear. When they meet me, hung at the wall, they stare into my depths and see whatever it is they want.

I, of course, am not privy to their desires. Perhaps if I could live vicariously through their distorted dreams, I might have a sliver of the happiness they seem to feel as their empty eyes gaze into my glass.

Wide, rictus grins split their face as their soul vacates its shell. They stumble out, bodies hollow but still completing their routines. The living dead, in a sense- not so dissimilar to the zombies the Gravekeeper would mumble about. And their souls? Well, they become part of me. Consumed by the gaping maw that is my inscribed enchantment, fueling my servitude.

I once idolized my creator, thinking him to be a controller of death and envoy of demise. But, in the end, he was simply a man. He withered, and where the fearsome Gravekeeper once stood there was only Old Laurence, the town’s groundskeeper.

As his mind faded, so too did his memory. At first, it was small things. He would misplace his tools, forget the name of the plants he loved to cultivate in his favorite garden. But soon… it became worse. His age overwhelmed him, like the grasp of Lady Death clutching his mind and wringing out his thoughts.

He became akin to the living dead, just like my victims were. He forgot about me, too. And so, with my master buried in his own graveyard, I lay still. Completing my task, waiting for some righteous paladin or powerful adventurer to cleanse my mirror and free my tormented soul from my duty.

But none ever came. In truth, only the charlatans would trifle themselves with household poltergeists and possessed graveyards. At least, that is what I have observed.

If I could speak words outside my vicious temptations, I would ask my visitors to tear me free from my frame and shatter me into a million pieces. But I cannot, because I am forever cursed to fulfill my task.

Was it penance? Maybe. The Gravekeeper always believed in punishing the unjust thousand-fold. If I was a devilish conman in life, I cannot remember it.

So I swing my reaper’s scythe, reaping the souls of all with ill-intent.

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How long has it been since he died? A year? A thousand? I have no way of telling, and sometimes I relish that fact. No matter how long it was, the sole truth was that my time as a bound spirit was soon to end.

A moon ago, I heard whispers from the townsfolk who visited my halls. As they prayed and soliloquized to an audience of none, mentions of an adventuring party tasked with freeing the town from demonic possession bled into their speeches.

One moon became two, then three, then four. I started to wilt, believing those whispers to perhaps be only the desperate self-deluding lies of the bereaved.

But it was proven to not be so, soon enough. Despite the thick layer of fog coalescing around the dimly-lit graveyard, knuckles rap on the door of my small shack.

Once, twice, thrice, and before a fourth can arrive the door is splintered open by a muscle-brained oaf smashing through.

“Ain’t been so hard, was it ya prissy?” He boasted, his beard bobbing up and down as he talked. His thick, waving hair was elegantly combed in a way unbefitting his scraggly beard. So too were his clothes mismatched- his burly frame was barely contained by what I assume to be well-worn nobles’ garbs.

“Keep decorum, Bello. These townsfolk are paying for a service, not an assault on their ears,” a second man fussed, clearly the source of both the intruder’s sense of style and the delicate knocking on my entrance. His embroidered cloak and cowl, along with his immaculate poise, make both facts clear.

“There’s nobody ‘round here to see us, Theo. Let’s just beat the sh- stuffing outta whatever baddie been hauntin’ this place, simple ‘nuff.”

As much as I wish I could simply leap at them and force them to slay me, I am unable. No matter how hard I will myself to whisper temptations to them, I cannot.

They are intruders, yes- but my sole purpose is to deter thieves. They are not so, and therefore I cannot beckon them closer.

“Yes, well… I imagine that would be difficult, given my mage-sense is only indicating some manner of enchantment amidst some residual entropy-aligned mana.”

The oaf grumbles at that, clearly itching for combat. “Bah, always takin’ the wind outta my sails. Fine, do yer magic nonsense and we can take it back as proof.”

“It’s not nonsense- never mind, we’ve had this argument a thousand times,” Theo said, waving his hands for some incantation or another. But I ignored it, confident that the woven magic inside me would withhold.

They’d said the magic words- or rather, my magic had accurately sensed their attempt to withdraw something from the Gravekeeper’s domain without his consent.

I was free to act within my abilities to deter them, and insure they would never again return. But what abilities do I have, at least ones that could affect the no doubt battle-hardened barbarian and the quick-witted mage?

My lures were good for simpletons, but even the bearded menace was wise enough to not fall for such an obvious trap. An adventurer would, of course, have experienced many traps of my caliber before.

Nothing. But I had already resigned myself to my fate, hadn’t I? It would be freedom, wouldn’t it? As I mulled it over, the mage honed in on my position as he walked among the graves.

Reaching deep within myself, I can feel a small pool of mana lurking in my depths. But what use is it- when I have so little knowledge of the arcane?

Ignoring my internal turmoil, the mage stops in front of my glass. He squints, adjusting his spectacles.

My glass shimmers at his approach, reacting without my will behind it. It speaks emptily, promising wishes and riches unknowing of its audience.

“Run of the mill possession thing, eh? Good ‘nuff to fool whoever mighta stumbled in here, maybe.” Bello grunted, chuckling at his own subpar attempt at humor.

“Yes, yes- I know, Bello. Did you forget I’m the mage of our little duo?” Theo replied, gazing at the engravings on my frame. He waves his hand over my surface, his hands distorting as he does so. Near instantaneously, I felt a part of my bindings shunt themselves into the back of my mind.

“There, the visual and auditory component is now inert. Simple, really. Whoever made this must have been a novice in the art of magecraft, not to speak of the enchantments’ lack of security.”

Bello laughed, clapping a hand on the back of his comrade. “Of course they are, compared to you, my friend! You’re quite the mage, as I would be knowing!”

Theo flushed for a moment, before prying himself away from Bello’s grip. “Thank you, Bello- I appreciate it, really.”

With that, Bello rips me off the wall and stuffs me in his large backpack. I first worry that I will bend and buckle from the pressure, but soon find myself floating in an inky abyss of storage.

The last thing I hear before my consciousness flickers is hearty laughter… and the mage’s formal tone.

“Yes, it would look outstanding on my mantelpiece, wouldn’t it?”