Chapter 1: The Smile in the Mirror

It was late summer when we moved into the house. The city was stifling under the heat, with the constant noise of honking cars and the bustle of pedestrians filling the air. My parents insisted this move would be a fresh start, a way to escape the chaos and find peace in a quieter place. But to me, it felt like a forced goodbye to everything I had known and loved.

I had always enjoyed the city. Even in my small room, I loved the view of the towering buildings, the sound of laughter from neighbors in the evening, and the constant energy that seemed to pulse through the streets. The city never stopped, and neither did I. There were always things to do, places to explore, and people to talk to. It was where I felt most alive.

But to my parents, the city had become too overwhelming. The noise, the crowds, the feeling of being constantly on edge—it had all worn them down. When they found this old house, far from the city, they quickly made up their minds. They didn’t ask me if I wanted to leave. They simply made the decision, and that was that.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw the house. It was an old, two-story building, perched on the edge of a small village. The roof was gray and weathered, and the garden was overrun with weeds and forgotten trees. The house seemed to have been left behind in time. The front door creaked loudly as it opened, and inside, the air smelled musty, like it hadn’t been properly aired in years.

The floors creaked with every step, and the walls were stained with the marks of age. The ceilings were high, but rather than feeling grand, they made the rooms seem colder, darker. It was as though the house was holding onto the past, reluctant to move forward.

The most noticeable feature in my new room was the mirror.

It stood in the center of the room, large and imposing. The frame was gold, but tarnished and faded, with patches of rust where the paint had worn away. The glass was cloudy and distorted, making everything it reflected appear slightly off. My mom said the previous owners had left it behind, and she thought it might be valuable. But to me, it was unsettling. It didn’t feel like something that should be here.

The first day in the house was a blur. We spent the day unpacking boxes, arranging furniture, and trying to adjust to our new surroundings. My room was bigger than my old one, but it felt empty. The walls were cracked, the windows were old, and the furniture was sparse. I didn’t know how to make it feel like home.

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That night, as I lay in bed, I found myself thinking about the city. The sounds, the sights, the warmth—it all seemed so far away now. Even though I had complained about it sometimes, I missed it more than I expected. Here, everything felt foreign. The silence was suffocating, and the house, despite being large and beautiful in its own way, felt cold and unwelcoming.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the mirror. Every time I passed it, I felt a strange unease, like something was watching me. I couldn’t explain it, but it was as though the mirror was aware of me.

A few days passed, and my parents started settling into life in the house. My dad spent hours in the garden, trying to tame the overgrown plants, while my mom enjoyed the peace, sitting by the window with a cup of tea. I, however, couldn’t adjust. I spent my days in my room, reading books from the city, trying to ignore the emptiness of the house. I didn’t have friends here, and school was far away. The days felt long and lonely.

At first, it wasn’t too bad. I kept busy with my books and my thoughts, trying not to think about how much I missed my old life. But as time passed, the silence began to wear on me. It felt like the house was pressing in on me, like it was hiding something, watching me. And it was then that the mirror started to feel even more strange.

Every time I looked at it, it seemed to stare back at me with a knowing presence, as if it was waiting for something. At first, I thought it was just my imagination, but the feeling never went away. The next time I stood in front of the mirror, I saw something that made my heart skip a beat.

My reflection, though it looked like me, wasn’t quite right. My face seemed a little older, my expression a little off. It was as though I was looking at myself from a distance, like someone had altered my reflection just slightly. It made me feel uneasy, but I told myself it was nothing. I was just tired, adjusting to a new place.

But that night, everything changed.

I was lying in bed, reading a book. My parents had already gone to sleep, and the house was still. The only sounds were the soft rustling of pages as I turned them and the occasional creak of the house settling. Despite the quiet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Every time I glanced toward the mirror, I felt a strange sense of unease, like something was waiting.

I looked up, scanning the room. The window, the desk, the bed, everything was in its place. Yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, something I had missed.

And then, I saw it.

In the mirror, my reflection wasn’t standing still. Slowly, it began to move. It raised its head, just slightly, and then its eyes met mine.

I froze.

I hadn’t moved. I was still sitting on the bed, reading. But in the mirror, my reflection wasn’t mimicking me. It was looking at me, with eyes that seemed colder, more calculating. The expression on its face was wrong, like it was sneering at me, mocking me.

And then it smiled.

It wasn’t a normal smile. It was slow and twisted, as if my reflection knew something I didn’t. It wasn’t the smile I would make. It was something else entirely. Something unsettling.

I quickly turned away, my heart pounding. My breath came in shallow gasps. “It’s just your imagination,” I whispered to myself. “You’re tired. It’s nothing.”

But even as I told myself this, I couldn’t escape the feeling that something was terribly wrong. The image of that smile stayed with me, lingering in my mind.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The house was too quiet, the darkness too heavy. I pulled the covers over my head, trying to block out the feeling that the house was watching me, waiting for something.

And from that moment on, I knew that I would never be truly alone in this house.