Lightning flashed. Thunder rolled, echoing down the narrow chasm. Perched atop a lonely hill, the Victorian manor loomed darkly over the forest. Its warped old windows burst white as lightning cracked overhead, sharp as a whip.
High atop the manor, in the garret atop the tower, a worn old mirror reflected the storm. The lightning lit the mirror. Red light smeared through the small round room, illuminating a man on the floor, an overturned candle, a book, thrown aside.
The lightning faded. In the darkness, a mahogany desk sat beneath one of the garret’s three windows, gazing out over the valley below. Books piled on the desk, stacked up to the bottom edge of the window, but no higher. Overhead, a simple brass fixture hung, sporting exactly two slots for candles. At the moment, both slots stood empty, offering no light to the room below.
A shield hung to the left, dented from old battles. To the right, a two-handed sword sat atop a stand, gleaming with fresh polish and well-kept. A Minotaur’s head stared glassily down at the small room from above the sword, while a tangle of strange tentacles floated in preservative fluid atop a small stand before the railing that guarded the lone spiral staircase to the garret. The mirror stood slightly to the left of the desk, not quite aligned with the windows. It gazed out the window to the desk’s right, facing the spiral staircase.
Rain rattled off the metal roof and rushed down the gutters. Wind battered the shutters and whistled around the gaps in the room’s walls. In the corner, a quiet plink. plink. sounded out as water dripped from a leaky roof into a bucket.
Quiet humming interrupted the din of the thunder. A [Maid] climbed the spiral staircase, carefully balancing a trayful of tea, in one hand, her other hand braced against the narrow staircase’s wall. A lit candle bobbled atop the tray, occasionally illuminating a lined, gray-haired face and old, pudgy body filling out her black-and-white maid’s uniform. Employed as a maid since she and Harold were both teens, Mabel knew the place as well as the back of her hand—every squeaky board, every creaking handle. Stepping to the side of a particularly squeaky board by habit, she muttered to herself, “Oh dear, oh dear, these creaky old stairs… Harold, your meal!”
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Climbing the last stair and paused, squinting into the dark. She lifted her candle, though the dim light did little to illuminate the dark. “Harold, is this another one of your jokes? Be done with it, dear. The tea is growing col—”
Lightning burst again. Harold laid on the ground, blank eyes gazing at the sky, his hand thrown out.
The maid screamed, stumbling backward. Tea burst from the teapot. Her heel slipped on the step, and her back struck the wall of the spiral staircase. Mouth gaping wide, she stared in abject horror.
A bite mark cut into the man’s neck. Blood soaked his prim Oxford shirt and old riding jacket, pouring into the rug underfoot. A pale, bloodless face gazed at the ceiling. His rotund body, chest heaving no more.
Dead. Dead, undoubtedly dead. Utterly, totally, dead.
Cra-BAM!
Directly overhead, a bolt of lightning flashed, lighting the room like daylight for a single brilliant moment. In that moment, the maid’s eyes darted up. Across the room, an old mirror reflected her own horrified face—and a smear of bright red blood, down the mirror’s center.
“It ate him. It ate him! I’m sure of it,” Mabel said, leaning forward. “That damned mirror! That damned mirror! I told him to leave it behind. I told him to destroy it. Oh, but Harold, Harold, he always wanted to remember, remember the old days, the adventures, the—”
“Madame,” the man opposite her said, leaning forward. He bridged his fingers together and propped them on the desk. Handsome and fit, he wore his pin-straight walnut-colored hair long, for the style of the day, but short for Mabel’s time, barely as long as his chin. Piercing green eyes gazed out at her from above sharp cheekbones, a narrow nose, and a firm chin, his whole face angular, a high forehead finishing the look. He wore a prim, dark green vest over his white shirt and simple brown trousers, with fine leather shoes that reflected the cool blue of the magic light fixture overhead.
“Oh, call me Mabel, dear, Mabel,” she said, waving a hand by reflex. Lifting her handkerchief, she dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, poor Harold, poor, poor Harold! The poor dear.”
“Mabel. You are aware, yes?” The [Detective] leaned in, long bangs threatening to flop into his face. In low tones, he whispered, “Mirrors can’t eat people.”