Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

It arrived on the seventh night of the new moon—a tall, antique mirror wrapped in soiled canvas, left at the doorstep of Madame Grin's House of Curiosities.

No one saw who delivered it.

No one remembered ordering it.

But once unwrapped, no one could stop looking at it.

The frame was carved from bone-white wood, warped and curling like fingers reaching out. Strange symbols were etched into the silver backing—runes older than language, pulsing with a faint red glow when touched. The surface was flawless, yet it reflected more than what stood before it.

It reflected what you feared becoming.

Evelyn Blackmoor first noticed its power when a guest, a young woman named Lila, stood before the glass for too long. At first, Lila's reflection mimicked her movements… until it didn't.

It blinked when she didn't. Smiled when she frowned.

And then it whispered something, inaudible.

That night, Lila disappeared.

Her reflection remained.

Frozen in the mirror.

The townspeople grew wary. Madame Grin insisted the mirror was harmless—"just a trick of shadow and light"—but she covered it with a shroud just the same. Still, Evelyn watched as people returned to it, unable to resist.

Drawn to it.

One by one, they vanished.

The mirror grew darker with each soul it took, its surface rippling like water in a storm. Reflections no longer mimicked—they watched, from the other side. Waiting. Smiling.

Evelyn decided to end it.

She waited until midnight, when the veil between worlds was thin. She stood before the mirror, her lantern burning low, and slowly removed the shroud.

The reflection showed a version of herself gaunt and hollow-eyed, skin pale as candle wax, hands bloodied. This reflection tilted its head.

And spoke.

"You don't belong here. But you will."

With a cry, Evelyn swung her lantern.

The glass cracked—then screamed.

It wasn't shattering. It was fighting back.

Hands erupted from the frame, clawing at the air, trying to pull her in. Evelyn stumbled back, chanting an old warding spell learned from the Crone of the Woods. The mirror howled, smoke pouring from its seams, faces pressing outward like bubbles under the surface.

She threw the lantern.

Flames consumed the mirror.

It didn't break.

It melted—screaming, whispering curses in forgotten tongues, the faces of the lost distorting in agony.

By dawn, only ash and a warped frame remained.

But Evelyn noticed something before she left the shop: in the shards of the melted glass, her reflection lingered just a little too long.

And it smiled after she turned away.

Some mirrors show the truth.

Others show what waits behind it.