I didn’t mean to wake it. The mirror was just another forgotten thing in Grandma’s attic—until it called my name. Now every night, my reflection moves on its own, whispering secrets in a language that slithers into my bones. The doctors say it’s stress. But I’ve seen shadows crawl out of the glass. And one of them wears my face. Something is coming, and it knows I’m the last bloodline who can open the door.

You died? You were a young adult who lived for parties and fun. You were outgoing, popular, with many friends and followers. You enjoyed your fame and charm - people fell for you instantly. Except one person. Someone grew obsessed with you, watching from afar. You never knew them until the night they broke into your home and shot you. As you got ready for bed, a figure appeared. Four shots rang out. Then darkness. Until you woke up to see a smiling face.