Ethan Ward stood in the office of The Haunted Haven, the brass key warm in his hand, the locket and Patient 0 tag heavy in his pocket. Dr. Nathaniel Pierce’s words—The Haven’s alive, and it’s hungry—gnawed at him, but his parents’ echo from the tower drowned them out. The journal lay open on the desk, his mom’s note stark in the dim light: Hope’s the key. Sophie Bennett sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through her own scribbled notes, her wrench resting beside her like a loyal pet.

“So,” Sophie said, glancing up, “Pierce drops a bombshell—your parents built the haunted boombox with Mr. Broody—and now what? We trust him, or stick with Red Dress?”

Ethan snorted, leaning against the wall. “Pierce knows the tech, but he’s hiding something—too slick, too cold. Lydia’s a pain, but she’s been straight about the lost.” He tapped the journal. “Mom and Dad trusted hope, not him. I’m betting on her.”

“Fair,” Sophie said, grinning. “She’s got better style, anyway—crimson beats a stuffy coat.” She paused, then nodded at the radio. “Think it’s got a new tune for us?”

As if summoned, the static flared—sharp, sudden, the dial spinning wildly. Ethan tensed, Sophie’s grin fading as the voice rasped through, low and deliberate. “The mirrors reflect the broken,” it said, a chill threading its words. “Face yourself, Ethan. Free her.”

The static cut off, leaving a hum in its wake. Ethan’s grip tightened on the key, his flashlight already in hand. “Mirrors,” he muttered, flipping through the journal—his dad’s sketch of a hall lined with cracked glass, labeled Reflection Room, with a note: The signal’s loudest in the cracks.

“Mirror hall?” Sophie asked, standing and grabbing her wrench. “Sounds like a funhouse nightmare. Where’s that?”

“Downstairs, probably,” Ethan said, heading for the main hall. “Everything’s below with this place.” They descended the narrow stairwell from the asylum task, the air growing colder, the hum pulsing stronger. The wails were gone now, but a new sound drifted up—soft, sharp whispers, overlapping like a crowd in a storm.

The stairwell opened into a corridor Ethan hadn’t seen—long, narrow, its walls lined with mirrors, their surfaces cracked and warped. His flashlight reflected back a dozen fractured Ethans—tired, stubborn, shadowed—and Sophie’s beam caught her own distorted face, grinning despite the unease.

“Creepy,” she said, tapping a mirror with her wrench. “Think we’re the broken ones?”

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“Not yet,” Ethan said, stepping forward. The whispers grew louder, threading through the hum, and his reflection shifted—not him, but his mom, pale and urgent, her voice breaking through: Free her. The locket flared, hot against his leg, and he pulled it out, the photo glowing—his parents in this hall, a third figure blurred beside them.

“Mom?” Ethan’s voice cracked, the mirrors trembling. Shadows bled from the cracks—not the asylum’s broken, but sharper, human, their whispers swelling into a scream. One lunged—a man, eyeless, clawing—and Ethan swung the key, its glow flaring, dissolving it into mist. More surged, their cries deafening, and Sophie swung her wrench, a clang echoing as one vanished.

“Ethan!” she shouted, dodging a tendril. “Plan?”

“Find her!” he yelled, scanning the mirrors. His light caught a figure at the corridor’s end—not a shadow, but Lydia Kane, her crimson dress stark against the glass, her form solid but flickering. She stood before a cracked mirror twice Ethan’s height, her eyes locked on him, cold but steady.

“You,” Ethan said, pushing through the chaos. “You’re the one to free?”

Lydia’s gaze hardened, the shadows freezing mid-lunge. “Not me,” she said, her whisper cutting through the screams. “Her.” She stepped aside, and the mirror rippled, revealing a woman—pale, dark-haired, her face a fractured echo of Ethan’s mom, trapped in the glass, her hands pressed against it.

“Who—” Ethan started, but Lydia cut him off.

“Me,” she said, voice low. “Before this. Before the signal took me.” She gestured to the mirror, her form flickering harder. “I was like them—chasing the lost. John and Mary found me here, tried to pull me out. But the Haven claimed me instead.”

Ethan’s chest tightened, the locket burning. “You’re one of the lost?”

“Was,” Lydia said, bitter. “Now I’m its chain—keeping it shut. You’re breaking it, Ethan, and I can’t stop you.” The shadows trembled, their screams softening, and she stepped closer. “Free her—me—and you’ll see more.”

“How?” Ethan demanded, the key glowing in his hand.

“Break it,” Lydia said, nodding at the mirror. “But know this: every piece you free, the signal grows. They’ll scream louder—your parents too.”

“Then I’ll hear them,” Ethan said, stepping forward. “Sophie, cover me.”

“On it,” Sophie said, wrench raised, her flashlight slashing through the shadows. Ethan slammed the key against the mirror, the glass shattering with a scream—not the shadows’, but Lydia’s, raw and primal. The trapped woman dissolved, the shards raining down, and a small object clattered to the floor—a silver ring, etched with an eye.

Lydia staggered, her form steadying, the shadows sinking away. “You’ve done it,” she whispered, picking up the ring. “I’m free—of that, at least.”

Ethan grabbed the ring from her, his jaw tight. “You’re with us now. No more warnings—help me find them.”

Lydia stared at him, then nodded, slipping the ring onto her finger. “A pact, then. I’ll guide you—past the threshold, to the signal’s heart. But it’ll cost you.”

“Worth it,” Ethan said, the locket warm in his hand. “Let’s go.”

Sophie lowered her wrench, grinning faintly. “Team Red Dress, huh? About time.”

Lydia’s lips twitched—a ghost of a smile. “Don’t celebrate yet. The Haven’s waking.” The hum pulsed, sharper now, and Ethan felt it—the signal, louder, closer, calling him deeper.