Evelyn stared at the locket in her palm, the initials B.H. catching the moonlight through the attic window. Inside was a tiny, faded photograph — a young woman, unmistakably Beatrice, smiling softly beside an older man. Her father, perhaps. Evelyn traced the edge of the picture with her thumb. It felt like she was holding a piece of Beatrice's soul.
She slipped the locket into her pocket and left the attic, her steps hurried. Something was unraveling, and she was now tangled in it. Once outside, she barely noticed the chill of the night. Her thoughts spun with questions: Was the ritual in the vision some kind of summoning? Or a sealing?
Back home, she examined the new photographs she'd taken in the attic. Most were ordinary. Dusty corners, warped beams — but in one image, just behind a broken trunk, was a faint shape. Not a full figure this time, but a face in the shadow of the mirror. Watching.
This wasn't just a haunting. It was a message.
The next day, Evelyn returned to the library and dug deeper into local lore. A frail book bound in cracked leather, "Echoes of Hawthorne Hollow," gave her more than she bargained for. Hidden near the back was a chapter titled "The Mirror Rites of the Hawthorne Line."
According to the book, Gregory Hawthorne had become obsessed with "lens portals" — the belief that mirrors and cameras could act as gateways between worlds. Spiritualists of the time had warned him, but he had persisted. The mirror in the attic had been the site of multiple failed rituals. Beatrice had been the last.
One line chilled Evelyn to her core:
> "Once caught between the lens and the veil, a soul may become a shadow, trapped in reflection, unable to cross — unless the last image is reversed."
Reversed.
She remembered the first photo — the one where Beatrice stood under the arch. What if that was the image that had locked her spirit in place?
Her hands trembled as she pulled out her camera. A wild idea formed — if she returned to the mansion, recreated that same photo, but mirrored it… could it undo what was done?
She wasn't sure. But she had to try.
That night, Evelyn returned to the mansion again, this time with a mirror of her own, a tripod, and Beatrice's locket hanging around her neck. The mansion welcomed her with its usual silence, but tonight the air thrummed with expectation. It was as if the house knew she was close to something.
She set up the camera at the exact angle of the original photo. She stood under the arch, just as Beatrice had, and held up the mirror. The glass shook slightly in her grip.
As she clicked the shutter, a cold wind surged through the hall. The mirror in her hands fogged over, and in it, Beatrice appeared, not as a shadow — but real, luminous, frightened.
She whispered something Evelyn couldn't hear.
And then — a scream.
Not Beatrice's. Something else. Deeper. Angrier.
The shadows twisted along the walls, and Evelyn fell to the ground, clutching the camera as a dark shape lunged toward her. Her finger hit the shutter again — and the flash burst through the room like lightning.
Everything stopped.
The silence returned.
Evelyn opened her eyes. The camera lay beside her. The mirror was cracked.
And the figure?
Gone.
She picked up the camera and reviewed the photo. Beatrice stood beneath the arch once more — but this time, her face was clear. Calm. Peaceful.
The curse had been tied to the image. And now, it had been broken.
But Evelyn knew this wasn't the end. The scream she'd heard — it hadn't come from Beatrice.
There was something else in the house.
And it was still there.