The Mirror’s Shadow

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The fog rolled thick over the gaslit streets of Victorian London, smothering the city in a veil of gray. It was the kind of night where the shadows stretched unnaturally long, and every sound—the clatter of carriage wheels, the distant bark of a dog—seemed amplified by the oppressive silence. In the heart of this murky gloom stood Dr. Jonathan Hargrave, his gloved hands clutching a letter that had arrived earlier that evening.

The note was brief, written in a spidery hand that made his skin crawl: “Come to No. 13 Blackthorn Lane. Midnight. The truth awaits.”

Dr. Hargrave was no stranger to the peculiar. As a physician with a keen interest in the burgeoning field of psychiatry, he had encountered his fair share of oddities—patients plagued by unseen voices, others trapped in waking nightmares. But this… this was different. The letter bore no name, no explanation, yet it pulled at something deep within him, a curiosity he couldn’t ignore.

Blackthorn Lane was a narrow, cobbled alleyway tucked away in the East End, notorious for its squalor and crime. The houses lining it were cramped and leaning, their facades crusted with grime. Hargrave hesitated before the door of No. 13, its paint peeling and knocker shaped like a leering gargoyle. He raised his hand, knocked once, twice, and waited.

The door swung open without a sound. Beyond it lay darkness so complete it seemed to breathe. Hargrave stepped inside, the hem of his coat brushing against something damp. The air was cold, carrying a metallic tang that set his teeth on edge. He lit his lantern, the flickering light casting distorted shadows on the walls.

“Is anyone here?” he called, his voice absorbed by the oppressive stillness. The only response was a faint creak, like a weight shifting on rotten floorboards.

The room he entered was sparsely furnished: a wooden chair, a table, and a mirror hung crookedly on the wall. On the table lay a diary, its cover worn and corners frayed. Hargrave opened it cautiously. The entries were erratic, scrawled in a hand that grew more frantic with each passing page:

March 4, 1887
I see them in the shadows. They watch, waiting for me to falter.

March 15, 1887
The voices grow louder. They whisper my name, but when I turn, there is no one there.

April 2, 1887
The mirror shows things that are not there. My reflection moves when I do not.

Hargrave’s pulse quickened. The entries stopped abruptly, as though the writer had been interrupted. Beneath the final words was a smudge of what looked disturbingly like blood.

A soft thump echoed from upstairs. Hargrave’s lantern quivered in his hand. Against all reason, he climbed the staircase, each step groaning under his weight. At the top, the corridor stretched into darkness, lined with doors, all ajar. He approached the nearest one and peered inside.

The room was empty, save for a large mirror propped against the far wall. Its surface was cloudy, but as Hargrave stepped closer, he saw his reflection staring back at him. He lifted his hand; the reflection did the same. But then it smiled.

Hargrave froze. He had not smiled.

The reflection stepped forward, pressing its hands against the glass. Hargrave stumbled back, his lantern crashing to the floor and plunging the room into near darkness. The glass rippled like water, and the reflection… stepped out.

It was him, yet not him. The eyes were darker, the smile cruel, predatory. “You shouldn’t have come here, Doctor,” it said, its voice identical to his own but dripping with malice.

Hargrave backed away, his breath coming in short gasps. “What are you?”

The doppelgänger tilted its head. “I am the truth you sought.” It advanced, each step deliberate. “You heal minds, yet you never turned your gaze inward. Tell me, Doctor, have you ever wondered what lurks within your own shadow?”

Hargrave’s back hit the wall. He fumbled for something—anything—to defend himself. His hand closed around a shard of broken glass from the fallen lantern. As the doppelgänger lunged, Hargrave thrust the shard forward. It plunged into the thing’s chest, and for a moment, it froze, its expression twisting into something almost… human.

The creature crumbled into ash, scattering across the floor. The house shuddered, the walls groaning as if exhaling a long-held breath. Hargrave staggered downstairs, the air thick with smoke and dust. He burst out onto the street, gulping in the cool night air.

When he turned back, No. 13 Blackthorn Lane was gone. In its place was an empty lot, overgrown with weeds.

For weeks after, Hargrave couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. His reflection in mirrors seemed to linger a moment too long, its gaze heavy with unspoken words. He burned the letter, sealed the shard of glass in a box, and buried it in the garden. But every night, as he lay in bed, he couldn’t help but wonder:

Had he truly defeated the darkness, or had it merely found a new place to hide?

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