Luke stood by his car, staring at the house like it might bite him. Eleven years had passed since he’d last seen it—since those quiet afternoons with his grandmother, sitting on the porch with lemonade and the hum of cicadas filling the silence. Now it was all his. His grandmother was gone, and the house, with its peeling paint and sagging roof, looked lonelier than he remembered.

He let out a long breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Guess I’m back,” he muttered, almost like he was trying to convince himself.

The stone path leading to the porch had cracked and shifted, weeds pushing up through the gaps. He stepped carefully over them, the air thick with the smell of dust and old wood. The porch groaned under his weight as he reached the front door. The key felt small in his hand, a little too cold, like it remembered how long it had been. He slid it into the lock. The doorknob wobbled slightly, but the door gave way with a soft click.

Inside, the house greeted him with stillness. The air was cool and stale, the kind of still that makes your ears ring. His shoes echoed against the wooden floors as he stepped into the hallway, shadows stretching around him. He found the light switch, and after a brief pause, a soft glow warmed the space. It wasn’t much, but it pushed the dark back a little.

The furniture was all still here—just hidden beneath white sheets, like the house was holding its breath. Everything was just familiar enough to hurt.

He stood still for a long moment, staring into the space where his Nana used to sit in her old chair, knitting something with her back just slightly hunched, humming under her breath.

The next few days blurred together. Luke fell into a rhythm—wake up, clean, repair, eat, repeat. He wasn’t planning on staying—he just wanted to clean the place up, maybe sell it. Fix the basics. Keep things in shape.

He scrubbed the kitchen tile, fixed the loose step by the hallway, oiled the front door hinges. It was good, honest work—simple, repetitive. But even with all that noise, the silence of the house crept in.

When he finally finished the living room, he slumped down into the only armchair he’d left uncovered. It was still as worn-in as he remembered, the cushions caved in just right. He wiped a film of sweat from his brow and glanced toward the basement door.

One more job.

The thought made him sigh.

The basement had always been off-limits when he was a kid. It wasn’t a suggestion—his grandmother had been clear. “Don’t go down there,” she’d said. Just that. No explanation. No stories. It didn’t feel like fear, either—it felt like respect.

Back then, the idea of that dark stairwell had been enough to keep him away. But now?

Now he was grown. There was no reason to be afraid of an old basement. Even if the thought still made his stomach twist.

Luke stood and walked over. The basement door was a chipped, dirty white, its knob cool to the touch. He paused a moment before twisting it open.

The hinges creaked like they hadn’t moved in years. A wave of musty air rolled out to greet him—thick, stale, heavy with dust. He wrinkled his nose and reached inside for the light switch. Three long fluorescent bulbs flickered to life, buzzing faintly.

The wooden stairs creaked with each step. Halfway down, he stopped and looked around. It wasn’t as creepy as he remembered. Just old. Messy. Real.

Dust lay thick on everything. Boxes were stacked in every corner. Sheets covered furniture, and cobwebs hung like lace from the ceiling. Some of it looked ancient, like stuff you’d find in a museum attic. He had no idea his grandmother had kept so much.

He sneezed, loud and sharp. Then again. Then once more. “Geez,” he muttered, pulling his shirt over his nose. He walked to the small basement windows, unlatched one, and cracked it open. The cool air that drifted in helped—barely.

Curious, he wandered toward a stack of boxes and picked one at random. Inside were strange odds and ends: half-burnt candles, smooth stones, bundles of twigs tied with string, and an old, leather-bound notebook. He flipped it open. The pages were filled with scribbles—words, maybe symbols. None of it made sense.

Luke stared at it, a weird feeling settling in his chest. His grandmother wasn’t into anything like this. At least, not that he knew of. Was it hers? Or someone else’s?

Then he stepped back—and caught his foot on a sheet-covered something behind him.

He stumbled, cursing, and landed hard on his side, scraping his palm against a cabinet. Pain flared, and he sat there a moment, breathing through it. “Awesome,” he muttered, inspecting his hand. A little blood, a lot of dust.

Then he looked at the sheet that had tripped him.

Something about it tugged at his curiosity.

He stood, walked over, and pulled it off.

A mirror stood beneath it—tall, wide, framed in deep brown wood carved with spirals and strange little shapes. It looked like something out of a fairytale. The glass was spotless, unnaturally clean compared to the rest of the basement.

Luke stepped closer. His reflection stared back. Every movement matched perfectly. Yet… something was off. Not wrong, just unsettling. Like the mirror was watching back.

He reached out and ran a finger along the frame. “Beautiful,” he whispered. But the unease in his chest didn’t go away.

Then came the whisper.

Touch it.

His eyes darted around the room. The whisper hadn’t come from anywhere. It had come from inside.

Touch.

The words weren’t even words, really. More like a pressure. A pull.

His fingers moved before his brain caught up.

As soon as he touched the mirror with his palm, the surface rippled under his hand like water. He gasped. The mirror pulled at him—first his hand, then his wrist.

He tried to yank it back, but the glass held him fast. In his panic, his other hand slapped against the surface, and it too was taken.

“No, no, no—” he stammered, fighting against the pull, but it was no use.

The mirror rippled again, pulling him in deeper.

Before he could scream, his face hit the glass—and he vanished into it.

The basement fell silent once more.

The mirror stood alone.