Hey Jully

Growing up in that old Victorian house on the edge of town, there was one unbreakable rule my grandmother drilled into me from the moment I could understand words: Never look into a mirror after dark. "The night twists what it shows," she'd whisper, her voice laced with a fear that made my skin crawl. I was just a kid back then, eight years old, and I figured it was one of those silly superstitions adults made up to keep children in line. But deep down, it gnawed at me—the way she'd glance at the covered mirrors in the hallways, her hands trembling as she pulled the cloths tighter before bedtime. Why? What could possibly be so dangerous about my own reflection? It was a stormy summer night when my curiosity finally won. Thunder shook the windows like angry fists, and the power flickered out, leaving the house swallowed in shadows. I lay in bed, wide awake, listening to the rain lash against the roof. My grandmother had gone to sleep hours ago, her warnings echoing in my head. But the bathroom down the hall called to me, its door slightly ajar, as if inviting me to break the rule. I slipped out of bed, my bare feet silent on the cold wooden floor. Heart pounding, I grabbed a flashlight from my nightstand and crept through the darkness. The air felt thicker in the bathroom, heavy with the scent of damp and something metallic, like old coins. I clicked on the flashlight, its beam slicing through the gloom, and there it was—the mirror above the sink, fogged slightly as if it had been breathing. I stared at my reflection: messy hair, wide eyes, the flashlight casting eerie shadows under my chin. Nothing happened at first. See? Just superstition, I told myself, a smug grin creeping onto my face. But then... my reflection blinked when I didn't. The grin widened on its side of the glass, stretching unnaturally, while mine faded. And behind me, in the depths of the mirror, a shape began to form—tall and gaunt, with eyes that glowed like dying embers. It stepped closer, its long fingers reaching out, brushing against the inside of the glass as if testing its strength. A whisper slithered into my ears, cold and familiar: my own name, spoken in a voice that wasn't mine. Panic surged through me. I screamed, dropping the flashlight, and the room plunged into blackness. But I could feel it now—something cold and wrong pushing through, reaching for me...