The Pale Dress in the Mirror

My cousin Lena and I were the last two awake in the old farmhouse. We’d come to her grandmother’s place for a weekend of silence, away from the city. That night, the wind rattled the windows, and the house creaked with every gust. We’d exhausted our gossip and our playlists, so we sat cross-legged on the braided rug in the upstairs hall, daring each other to do something we’d regret. Lena was the brave one, always mocking my fear of the dark. She’d found a book in the attic, a weathered thing with a cracked leather cover, and she’d read aloud a section about a mirror in the house that could show you your dead grandmother. I told her that was stupid, but my heart was a drum. We decided to do it together, but we needed a mirror. The only one was in the bathroom, a giant oval with a gold frame that had tarnished to green. We lit a single candle, the only light, and closed the door. The toilet seat was cold through my jeans. We held hands and said her name three times, just like the book said. ‘Agnes, Agnes, Agnes.’ Nothing. The flame flickered, but no ghost appeared. We laughed, relieved, and I moved to unlock the door. That’s when I heard it, a whisper like dry leaves. ‘My dear, you cannot leave me now.’ I froze. Lena grabbed my arm, her nails biting. We looked at the mirror. There was no reflection. The glass was just dark, like a void. But the candle flame bent toward the mirror, as if something beyond was sucking the light. And then I saw it, a pale shape forming in the black, a woman in a long white dress, her face blurred. She raised a hand, and on the glass, words appeared in mist: ‘You opened the door. Now I am free.’