Claire stared at the glowing symbol in her palm, trembling. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. The mark wasn't burning anymore, but it pulsed—syncing with her heartbeat, syncing with the house.
A low creaking groaned above her.
The attic.
The house pulled her gaze upward, and before she could question it, she was climbing the stairs, her feet moving like they already knew the way.
Each step screamed under her weight, old wood protesting her presence. At the top, the attic door hung slightly open. Something dark leaked down the frame.
Claire hesitated.
"Don't look away," a whisper said.
She pushed it open.
Inside, the attic was both empty and crowded. Empty of furniture, but filled with presence. Shadows pooled in corners like spilled ink, and in the center, a large oval mirror stood propped against the far wall.
But it didn't reflect her.
It showed the basement.
She blinked, unsure.
Yes. The mirror showed stairs going down, deeper than the house should allow.
Claire approached it slowly. As she did, the mark on her palm began to glow again, brighter. The mirror shimmered—once, twice—then rippled like water.
And then she heard it.
A cry. Small. Childlike.
"Claire?"
Her brother's voice. From inside the mirror.
She reached out. Her fingers touched the glass.
And were pulled through.