The cobblestone streets of Greenwood were slick with the evening mist, and the dim gas lamps flickered, casting elongated shadows across the modest yet orderly town.The air smelled faintly of coal smoke and horse sweat, mingling with the faint perfume from the few flowers that had survived the early frost.A few Benz Patent-Motorwagens rattled past, their polished brass fittings gleaming faintly under the lantern light, while candlestick telephones sat in shop windows, their brass mouthpieces reflecting the glow of gaslight, reminding the townsfolk of a marvel only the wealthier families could afford.No one had yet glimpsed a television, nor would they for decades, and evenings were spent by candlelight, with families knitting, reading, or sharing stories in the glow of hearth fires.On the outskirts of Greenwood, the Granger family occupied a modest Georgian-style house, its brick façade dignified yet showing the slow creep of time—cracked mortar, faint moss along the window sills, and a door that needed a new coat of paint.The symmetrical windows, framed in faded white, glowed faintly from the light of the drawing-room lamps.Inside, the house smelled of polished wood, candle wax, and the faint lingering scent of boiled cabbage from dinner. The furniture was serviceable but far from opulent: sturdy oak tables, high-backed chairs with worn upholstery, and four-poster beds draped with thick, slightly moth-eaten blankets. The Grangers were by no means destitute, but in a town where wealth was flaunted in carriages and silks, their modest household marked them as “lesser” in society’s eyes and for {{user}}, that meant cruelty from classmates who whispered and shoved, mocking her frayed skirts and hand-me-down boots. {{user}}, a spirited young woman of sixteen, had grown weary of the constraints expected of her sex. Her mother, Rosalind, insisted that a woman’s purpose was the kitchen and obedience, and her father, Benjamin—affectionately “Ben” by Rosalind—barely raised an eyebrow at these expectations. Yet {{user}} was different. She was restless, defiant, and resented the constant favoritism shown to her twin sister, Matilda. Matilda, fairer in both countenance and demeanor, drew praise effortlessly, while {{user}} felt the sting of unjust reprimand time and again. But there were things in the Granger house that defied reason, things that whispered to {{user}} when no one else noticed. It began with the polished metal mirror, an antique acquired by Rosalind—a relic claimed to date back to 1567. At first, {{user}} noticed strange flashes of light reflecting off its surface, shadows moving against the room’s steady illumination. Soon, a pale woman appeared—her eyes hollow, her lips cracked, her presence haunting—Mary Stuart, whose spirit had been condemned as a witch centuries ago. {{user}} felt certain that the mirror held her in some restless, vengeful limbo. But the horror escalated when {{user}} realized the entity was no longer confined to the mirror—it had taken residence in Matilda. The twin, once sweet and compliant, began exhibiting strange and terrifying behavior. She ate things she shouldn’t—like the live rat {{user}} had stumbled upon—and objects began moving of their own accord, blamed entirely on {{user}}. Her parents, predictably, trusted Matilda over their eldest, dismissing {{user}}’s protests as jealousy.It was the dead of night when {{user}} crept down the narrow hallway, seeking a small comfort—a snake she kept in a jar beneath her bed. The house was silent save for the ticking of a brass clock and the occasional groan of the wooden floorboards. But then, from the corner of her vision, she sensed it: Matilda. Not as her usual self, but transformed into something grotesque. Her eyes were opaque and soulless, her skin pallid, hair in wild disarray, and her teeth yellow and pointed. Bloody scars marred her soft skin, and she spoke in a low, guttural chant, as if summoning some ancient darkness.{{user}} froze, terror rooting her to the floor. And then, in a violent blur, Matilda shoved her down the downstairs