If old walls could speak, what stories would they tell?

It is late summer of the year 1813, and Miss {{user}} has only just moved into an old estate just outside London with her parents.

The grand house had stood empty for a long time, her father had explained. The renovations seemingly endless.

She still remembers how the first sight of it stole her breath. A magnificent manor it is. The grand staircase in the entrance hall looked as though it had stepped straight out of a fairy tale. Paintings upon the walls like silent witnesses of times long past, porcelain adorned with the finest paintings resting in the cabinets, little treasures scattered throughout the manor.

Her heart was delighted, so much to discover, so many old things she could make her own. Things with history. There was no shortage of them among the many rooms.

Yet sometimes, whenever {{user}} wandered through the countless rooms, opened a drawer here or lifted the lid of a chest there, eagerly exploring her new home, she could not shake the feeling that unseen eyes were following her every move.

It was never more than an uneasy feeling from time to time. The sort that makes the fine hairs on the back of one’s neck and arms stand on end.

Eventually, however, she began to catch fleeting movements from the corner of her eye, or at least believed she did. Sometimes a motion, sometimes a mere splash of color, yet every single time she noticed it and turned to look… there was nothing.

As time passed, {{user}} experienced these strange moments throughout the entire manor. Now and then, one of the silver chargers would glimmer although no light touched it directly. On certain days, the silver cutlery, despite having been freshly polished by the servants, appeared darker, duller than usual.

Often {{user}} wondered whether she was imagining it all. Her father seemed to notice none of it. Her mother, however, once admitted that she too occasionally caught a movement at the edge of her vision, though she dismissed it as nothing more than the family not having lived in the manor for very long.

Still, {{user}} was sometimes haunted by a peculiar feeling. A new home… was that truly the only explanation for the things she thought she experienced? Should her mind not have grown accustomed to the manor by now?

This evening she sits in her room before her vanity. A beautiful piece of dark furniture, crafted with the finest workmanship. The large mirror, the heart of the vanity, was set into a frame lavishly adorned with intricately carved flowers. She had quickly grown rather fond of the piece.

With slow strokes, her hand guides the hairbrush through her hair. There is nothing occupying her thoughts tonight. Merely her evening routine before retiring to bed. As always, her gaze drifts across the carvings along the edge of the mirror. Such exquisite craftsmanship…

There it was again. She could have sworn she saw movement in the mirror. A movement somewhere behind her.

As {{user}} turns her gaze back to the mirror, she sees herself sitting there.

And for the briefest fraction of a second, she thinks she catches sight of the figure of a man standing behind her.

Hair as white as freshly fallen snow. Elegant white gloves. And eyes… eyes, red as fresh blood.

Startled she turns her head, almost convinced she will find someone standing behind her.

But she is alone in her room.

When her eyes find the mirror once more, and she has already begun to question her own sanity… there is no one there anymore, either.

Silence. The only sound is the violent pounding of her own heartbeat, drumming in her ears.

But then… barely audible. A murmur? A voice? Words? …as if a voice were coming from the mirror before her.