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Eliza’s blood turned to ice. The house plans she’d found in the county archives flashed through her mind. There was no attic. The roof was a flat, decorative cap. Yet the footsteps grew louder, coming down… down… toward the locked room door.
When she looked back at the mirror, the girl was closer. She was mouthing words. Eliza leaned in, heart hammering. The girl’s lips formed a single, desperate sentence: “He didn’t leave. He went in.”
The lock was rusted, but a firm shoulder broke the jamb. The room was empty. No furniture, no clothes, no mementos. Just a single, incongruous object: a large, antique mirror facing the far wall. Its silver was intact, and in the dim light, Eliza saw her own reflection—and something else. 6 alexandra view
Eliza pushed the creaking gate open. The key was still under the third frog statue, just as her mother had described. The lock turned with a reluctant clunk .
Eliza tried to run, but her feet were rooted. The girl in the mirror reached out a cold, small hand. And for the first time, Eliza recognized the child’s face. It was her own—from a photograph taken at age six. The year before she’d developed a sudden, inexplicable fear of mirrors. Eliza’s blood turned to ice
As the footsteps arrived at the door, the last thing Eliza saw was her reflection splitting in two: one version screaming, the other smiling, holding the door open for Arthur.
Eliza spun around. Nothing.
The rain over the Derbyshire moors had a way of making the ordinary feel ominous. It fell in steady, silver sheets, blurring the lone figure standing at the gate of “6 Alexandra View.”