Emily, a young woman with an insatiable curiosity, wandered through the dimly lit aisles. Her eyes fell on an ornate antique mirror, its intricate frame gleaming under the flickering lights. The mirror seemed to call to her, and she couldn't resist its allure. As she paid for the mirror, a sudden chill ran down her spine, but she dismissed it as the cold wind from the storm.
Emily admired the craftsmanship of the frame, tracing its patterns with her fingers. As the clock struck midnight, a dense fog began to form on the glass surface, obscuring her reflection. She watched, frozen in place, as a handprint appeared on the inside, slowly spreading across the glass. Her heart pounded in her chest, a mix of fear and disbelief gripping her.
Emily took a step back, her voice catching in her throat. The figure's lips curled into a wicked grin as it whispered, "You invited me in." Desperate, she grabbed a nearby object and hurled it at the mirror, but the glass remained unscathed. Panic surged through her as she realized she was trapped in a nightmare.
The figure reached through the glass, its cold fingers wrapping around her wrist. Emily screamed, her voice echoing through the empty house, as she struggled against the inevitable pull. The mirror's surface rippled like water, swallowing her whole. Her last glimpse was of the figure's triumphant expression before darkness enveloped her.
The mirror had vanished, leaving no trace of its existence. In its place lay a single photograph, its edges worn and faded. It showed Emily, her face frozen in a silent scream, eyes pleading for release. The air was heavy with an eerie stillness, as if the room held its breath, waiting for someone to notice the missing girl.
The shopkeeper, an elderly woman with knowing eyes, watched as the customer picked up the frame. "Ah, the stories this photograph could tell," she murmured to herself, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. Outside, the storm continued to rage, as if echoing the turmoil trapped within the image. The cycle had begun anew.
