The Lantern in the Glass

I never believed in ghosts, not even when my daughter, Lily, came home from school with a wild tale about a game you play with a mirror. She said a friend told her about it—a way to see beyond the veil, to call forth the spirit of a lantern weaver who died in a fire nearly a century ago. I laughed it off, telling her it was just a silly story. But that night, when her friend Mia slept over, they locked themselves in the bathroom with a flashlight and a hand mirror I’d inherited from my grandmother.

At first, I heard nothing but their giggles and the creaks of our old farmhouse—sounds I’d grown accustomed to over the years. But then, the creaking grew louder, more rhythmic, like footsteps pacing above us. I shrugged it off; the house settled differently in the cold autumn wind. When they finally emerged, their faces were pale, eyes wide, and they swore they’d seen a woman in the mirror, her hair like flame, reaching out for them. I rolled my eyes, but they begged me to try the game, to prove it was all in their heads. Reluctantly, I agreed.

We gathered in the bathroom, the only light coming from a dim flashlight placed on the sink. The house fell silent—no creaks, no wind, just our breathing. I stared into the old mirror, my reflection faint in the gloom. After a minute, I felt a chill run down my spine. The air grew heavy, and the flashlight flickered. Then, in the mirror, I saw a figure—not my reflection, but a woman in a tattered dress, her skin cracked like burnt wood, her eyes glowing embers. She was moving toward the glass, her mouth opening in a silent scream. My heart pounded. I fumbled for the light switch, but in the dark, I couldn’t find it. Then the light flickered on by itself, blinding me. The mirror shattered into a thousand pieces, and the boys—Lily and Mia—were frozen, their faces etched with terror.

I yanked them out of the bathroom, my own hands shaking. We never spoke of it again, but that night, as I tried to sleep, I heard a faint humming coming from the bathroom, and through the cracked door, I saw a flickering orange glow. The next morning, the mirror was gone, but I found a small, burnt lantern on the bathroom floor. I know now that the game didn’t show us a ghost—it showed us what was already in our home. And every night since, I hear that humming, and I see the faint glow of a lantern in the mirror’s reflection, even though the mirror is gone. It’s waiting for another player, and I fear that if I don’t play, it will find a way to play with us anyway.