It was a chilly November evening, and the leaves crunched beneath our feet as we walked up the narrow, winding path to my childhood home. My boyfriend, Jason, held my hand tightly, his palm clammy despite his usual confident demeanor. Meeting the parents is nerve-wracking enough, but I had warned him—my family was… different.
“Are they really that strict?” Jason asked, trying to mask his unease with a nervous chuckle.
“It’s not about strictness,” I replied, stopping in my tracks to face him. “It’s about respect. No matter what happens, stay polite. And whatever you do, don’t go into the basement.”
Jason raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. I had rehearsed this moment a dozen times in my head, but something felt off as we approached the old Victorian house. Its once-bright paint was now peeling, and the windows seemed to glare at us like dark, empty eyes.
When my parents opened the door, they greeted us with unnervingly wide smiles. My mother’s pale skin seemed almost translucent, her gray hair framing her face like a cloud. My father, tall and gaunt, extended a bony hand toward Jason.
“So, this is the young man,” my father said, his voice a deep rumble. Jason shook his hand, wincing slightly, and I noticed the thin streak of blood where my father’s nails had grazed his palm.
Dinner was quiet at first, the only sounds coming from the clinking of silverware and the eerie creaks of the house settling. My mother asked Jason polite questions about his job, his family, his plans for the future. He answered them all with a forced smile, his discomfort growing as the shadows in the room seemed to stretch and writhe.
Finally, Jason couldn’t take it anymore. “So, about the basement,” he blurted, looking at me. “Why can’t we go down there?”
The room went silent. My father’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. My mother’s eyes locked onto mine, the smile fading from her lips.
“We don’t talk about the basement,” she said, her voice cold and sharp.
Jason shifted uncomfortably, muttering an apology, but I could see the curiosity burning in his eyes. I wanted to grab his hand, to drag him out of the house, but it was too late. He had broken the unspoken rule.
That night, as we lay in the guest bedroom, Jason whispered, “I’m going to check it out.”
“No,” I hissed, gripping his arm. “You don’t understand. My family—this house—it’s not what it seems. Please, just trust me.”
But Jason was already slipping out of bed, his curiosity outweighing his fear. I followed him as he crept down the creaking staircase, the air growing colder with each step.
When he reached the basement door, he hesitated for a moment before turning the handle. The door swung open, revealing a steep staircase descending into darkness.
“Jason, don’t,” I pleaded, but he was already halfway down.
The basement smelled of damp earth and decay. As Jason reached the bottom, he froze. I followed reluctantly, my heart pounding in my chest. What I saw made my blood run cold.
The room was filled with shadows that moved unnaturally, forming shapes that were almost human but not quite. In the center of the room stood a large, ancient-looking mirror. Its surface shimmered, reflecting not our faces, but something monstrous—twisted, elongated figures with glowing red eyes.
Suddenly, the shadows lunged toward Jason, pulling him toward the mirror. He screamed, but his voice was muffled as his reflection was dragged into the glass. I tried to grab him, but my hands passed through the shadows as if they weren’t there.
The last thing I saw was Jason’s terrified face, his mouth forming a silent plea, before the mirror’s surface rippled and went still.
I stumbled back up the stairs, slamming the door shut behind me. My parents were waiting at the top, their expressions calm, as if they had been expecting this.
“You should’ve warned him better,” my mother said softly.
I sank to the floor, sobbing. I had warned him. But curiosity had claimed another victim.
The next morning, Jason’s car was gone, and my parents acted as though he had never been there. When I looked at the family portrait in the hallway, I noticed a new figure—a faint, shadowy outline standing behind me, its eyes glowing red.
The days following Jason’s disappearance were a blur. My parents resumed their routine as if nothing had happened, their smiles unnerving, their gazes heavy with unspoken knowledge. I, however, was a shell of myself, unable to shake the weight of guilt and terror. Jason was gone, and I was powerless to bring him back.
But the nightmare wasn’t over.
One evening, as I sat in my childhood bedroom staring blankly at the wall, I heard it—a faint knock. It was coming from the mirror. My heart stopped as I turned to look. At first, it was just my reflection, but then it moved—blinking, tilting its head—out of sync with me.
“Help me,” Jason’s voice echoed faintly from the glass. His face appeared in the reflection, twisted in pain, his eyes filled with desperation.
I stumbled back, my mind racing. What could I do? How could I save him? The mirror was ancient, something my family had kept for generations. I realized then that it wasn’t just a mirror—it was a portal, a prison for those unlucky enough to break the house’s rules.
Desperate, I confronted my parents.
“You have to help me get him back!” I screamed, tears streaming down my face.
My father sighed deeply, setting down his newspaper. “You don’t get it, do you?” he said, his tone laced with frustration. “Once the house takes someone, there’s no returning them. It’s… part of the deal.”
“The deal?” I shouted. “What deal?”
My mother placed a cold hand on my shoulder, her expression pitiful but resolute. “This house sustains us, keeps us alive. But it demands sacrifices. Jason is gone, dear. Let him go.”
But I couldn’t.
That night, I went back to the basement. The air felt heavier, colder than before, and the shadows seemed to cling to me. The mirror stood ominously in the center, its surface shimmering faintly. I could hear Jason’s voice again, faint but pleading.
“Don’t do this,” my mother’s voice called from behind me. I turned to see her standing at the top of the stairs, her face pale and fearful. “You don’t know what you’re meddling with.”
Ignoring her, I stepped toward the mirror and placed my hand against the glass. It was cold, almost burning, but I didn’t pull away. “Jason!” I cried. “Can you hear me?”
His face appeared once more, clearer this time. “It’s a trap!” he shouted. “They’ll take you too!”
Before I could react, the shadows in the room surged forward, wrapping around me like smoke. I screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the oppressive darkness. My reflection in the mirror twisted, becoming a distorted version of myself. Then, with one final pull, the shadows dragged me through the glass.
The next morning, my parents stood silently in the basement, staring at the mirror. My mother wiped a tear from her cheek, while my father shook his head solemnly.
“She was always too stubborn,” he said.
In the hallway, the family portrait had changed again. Two shadowy figures now stood behind my parents, their glowing red eyes burning with silent anguish.
The house remained still for a while, content with its latest offerings. But it wouldn’t be long before it demanded more.
And it always got what it wanted.