On the outskirts of a quiet town stood an old Victorian house, its shutters crooked, roof sagging, and walls blanketed in ivy. It had sat empty for years—until Thomas moved in. A quiet man in his forties, Thomas was a writer seeking solitude and inspiration, and the cheap price of the house made it irresistible. The locals had warned him: “The attic’s not right,” they said. But he smiled politely and unpacked his books anyway.

One evening, rain tapped gently against the windows as Thomas explored the house. He hadn’t dared go into the attic until that night. The narrow staircase groaned beneath his weight, and the door at the top stuck as if it hadn’t been opened in years. He pushed it with his shoulder, and it gave way.

The attic smelled of old wood and forgotten memories. Dust swirled in the beam of his flashlight. Boxes, trunks, and a broken rocking chair filled the room. But what caught his eye was the mirror in the corner. It was large, antique, its frame carved with roses and vines. He approached it slowly.

That’s when he saw her.

Not in the reflection—outside of it.

She stood just behind him, pale and translucent, in a faded blue dress that shimmered like mist. Her eyes were distant, her mouth slightly parted as if she were about to speak but never did.

Thomas didn’t scream. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe the years of fiction had numbed him to fear. He just stared at her and said, “Hello.”