Granny’s old house stood at the edge of the village, hidden by twisted trees and overgrown vines. No one came near it anymore. The walls, once white, were now stained with moss, and the windows always seemed too dark—as if they were hiding something behind them.
The villagers whispered that shadows followed Granny, and they weren't wrong.
For many years, she had felt them. Shadows that slipped under doors. Shadows that breathed against her neck when she was alone. Shadows that whispered in corners, calling her name in voices that sounded like forgotten lullabies. But whenever someone came to check, there was nothing. No footprints. No sound. Just Granny, pale and shaking.
But now, the house was quiet. Her children were grown. Her friends long gone. Granny was alone with the shadows.
And she was tired.
One rainy evening, thunder cracked like splitting bone. The wind howled through broken windowpanes, carrying whispers with it. Granny lit a candle and sat in her rocking chair, staring into the fire. Her eyes were sunken, her skin papery like dried leaves.
She was no longer afraid. She was angry.
“I’ve had enough,” she said to the flickering flames. “You want me? Come get me.”
But no shadows moved.
Instead, Granny reached for something hidden beneath the floorboards: a book wrapped in old lace and dust. It had belonged to her grandmother, a woman no one liked to speak of. Inside were pages filled with strange symbols, words that hummed when read aloud.
Her grandmother had once said, “If they won’t leave you be, become one of them.”
So Granny began to speak.
She gathered things: a strand of her white hair, a spoonful of ash from her chimney, and a mirror older than any clock in the house. The air grew heavy as she spoke the ancient words. The candle dimmed to a sickly orange, and the flames danced like they were afraid.
Then it happened.
A chill swept across the room. The mirror trembled. Granny stood before it, breathing hard. At first, she saw only herself—bent, tired, and lonely. But then… the reflection blinked.
She hadn't.
The mirror’s Granny smiled wide, too wide. Her eyes were black puddles, and from her feet, a dark mist curled like smoke.
Granny stumbled back.
"No..." she whispered. "You’re not me."
But the shadow in the glass leaned forward.
“I’ve always been you”, it said.
Memories rushed into her like cold water—moments she thought were attacks from the shadows. The time her dog disappeared. The strange scratches on the walls. The broken dishes. The whispering voices.
She had done it all. In her sleep. In her silence. In her fear.
She was the shadow.
Granny screamed.
She tried to finish the ritual—to lock the shadow back inside. Her hands shook as she traced the last symbol on the floor with chalk made from crushed bones. But the moment she drew the final circle, the floor groaned beneath her.
And then, pain.
Granny looked down.
Her foot was bleeding. One of her toes—her smallest one—was gone. Just… gone. Like it had been chewed away by something that wasn't there.
She fell back, dizzy. The mirror laughed.
Not loud. Not cruel.
But soft. Like it was humming a lullaby.
The house began to change.
The walls started to breathe, in and out, like a chest. The floorboards creaked with steps that weren’t hers. Doors opened by themselves, and cold fingers brushed her cheek when she cried.
She crawled to the kitchen, leaving streaks of blood behind her. She wanted to burn the book. She wanted to run. But the shadows were awake now.
And they were inside her.
Every mirror in the house now showed a different version of her. One with no eyes. One with no mouth. One made of only smoke and teeth.
Granny closed her eyes and whispered to the house, “I didn’t know. I didn’t know it was me…”
But the house didn’t care.
The next morning, the village was quiet. The rain had stopped. A group of children dared each other to walk near Granny’s house, laughing nervously. They said the door had opened on its own last night.
When one of the boys peeked through the dusty glass, he saw nothing.
Just a rocking chair.
Rocking.
And a mirror leaning against the wall.
In the mirror, he thought he saw a woman standing.
Old. Kind-looking.
She smiled at him.
He smiled back.
But when he turned away, the smile in the mirror didn't.
It grew.
And grew.
And behind the glass, in the reflection only, her shadow reached out—
and waved.
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