The Stained Glass Reflection

My name is Elara, and I’m sixteen. In the fall of 2019, my family inherited an old, sprawling manor from a great-aunt I’d never met. It was called Ashford House, a pretentious name for a place that seemed to sag under the weight of its own history. The moment we stepped inside, the air was thick with dust and the smell of old wood. My parents were thrilled, talking about restoration and new beginnings, but I felt a cold knot in my stomach.

We moved in late September, and for a while, it was just the usual settling-in chaos. The house groaned and creaked, but that felt normal for a place that had stood for over a century. I claimed a room in the east wing, with a bay window overlooking a neglected garden. The walls were covered in faded floral wallpaper, and there was a massive, antique mirror in the hallway that seemed to swallow light. I made a point to avoid it after I caught my reflection looking strangely distorted, my face elongated and pale.

The first true incident happened in early November, on a rainy Tuesday night. My parents were at a charity gala, and I was alone, curled up on the living room sofa with a book and a cup of tea. The rain hammered against the leaded glass windows, and the wind howled through the old chimneys. Around nine, I decided to go to the bathroom, which was down a long, dimly lit corridor. I passed by the grand staircase, its banisters gleaming dully in the low light.

As I stood at the sink, running water over my hands, I felt the unmistakable prickling of being watched. I glanced into the mirror, but saw only my own reflection, pale and wide-eyed. I tried to dismiss it, but the feeling grew stronger. I was just about to dry my hands when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye – a figure, silhouetted, slipping past the open doorway and heading toward the library at the end of the hall. My heart hammered. I called out, ‘Hello?’ but the only answer was the distant ticking of the grandfather clock.

Against every instinct, I walked to the hallway. The corridor stretched before me, lined with portraits of ancestors I didn’t recognize. Their eyes seemed to follow me. I reached the library door, which was slightly ajar. I pushed it open, and the creak of the hinges was deafening in the silence. The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the moon through a stained glass window, casting multicolored patterns on the floor. I stepped inside, and the temperature dropped sharply. I could see my breath.

I was about to retreat when I noticed something on the old oak desk – a photograph, face down. I turned it over. It was a picture of a woman, perhaps in her thirties, with a serene smile and piercing blue eyes. There was something familiar about her, but I couldn’t place it. I set it down and backed away, my skin crawling. As I reached the door, I glanced back at the stained glass window. The image was of a woman in flowing robes, but I could have sworn she had moved, her head tilted as if looking at me.

That night, I barely slept. I kept replaying the image of the woman in the photograph and the stained glass. The next morning, I asked my mother about my great-aunt. She told me her name was Margaret, and she had been a recluse, rarely seen in town. She had been an artist, known for her intricate stained glass work. The window in the library was one of her last pieces. My mother also mentioned a tragic story – Margaret had a daughter who died young, and Margaret never recovered. The girl’s name was Elara. I felt a chill run down my spine.

I decided to investigate the house further. In the attic, I found a trunk filled with Margaret’s belongings – sketchbooks, journals, and more photographs. In one journal, I found a passage that made my blood run cold: ‘She whispers to me from the glass, but I know she is not my daughter. My daughter is gone. This thing wears her face.’ I also found a newspaper clipping from 1952: ‘Local Artist’s Daughter Drowns in Pond.’ The daughter’s name was Elara.

I was so engrossed in my reading that I didn’t notice the attic door had closed behind me. When I looked up, I saw her standing by the small window – the woman from the stained glass, but with hollow, black eyes. She smiled, and it was a terrible smile, not human. She took a step toward me, and I felt an overwhelming urge to walk toward her, to reach for her hand. I fought against the pull, grabbing the trunk’s edge. I screamed, and she dissolved into motes of dust.

I ran downstairs, my heart racing. I tried to tell my parents, but they dismissed it as my imagination, citing old-house creaks and my ‘overactive mind.’ But the encounters became more frequent. I would catch glimpses of her in mirrors, in the reflective surface of the television, in the moonlight on my bedroom window. Each time, I felt a strange combination of dread and an inexplicable pull toward her.

One night, I woke to find myself standing in front of the library’s stained glass window. I didn’t remember walking there. The woman in the glass was fully formed now, her hand pressed against the pane, mouthing words I couldn’t hear. I felt a sudden anger – an emotion that wasn’t mine. It was the anger of Margaret, or perhaps the entity that wore Elara’s face. I saw flashes of memories: Margaret screaming at the girl, the girl running out into the rain, the girl’s body floating in the pond. The entity’s voice entered my mind, cold and smooth: ‘She took my life. Now you will give me yours.’

The next day, I went to the local historical society and found records of the manor. There was a painting of Margaret and her daughter, and I was shocked to see that the daughter looked exactly like me – same face, same hair, same eyes. The painting was dated 1950, and the daughter’s name was Elara. I realized then that I was not a coincidence; I was a vessel. The entity had been waiting for me to come back.

I decided to destroy the stained glass window. I took a hammer and entered the library, the air thick with tension. As I raised the hammer, the room grew colder, and the woman in the window began to scream – a terrible, high-pitched shriek that shook the walls. ‘You cannot destroy me, child. I am a part of you now.’ But I brought the hammer down, again and again, shattering the glass into a thousand pieces. As the last shard fell, the screaming stopped, and a profound silence settled over the house.

I thought it was over. But that night, as I looked into the bathroom mirror, I saw my reflection smile back at me, and it was not my smile. It was her smile, wide and knowing. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The reflection slowly raised her hand and pressed it against the glass, leaving a faint imprint. I stared at my own face, which was now slowly changing, my eyes deepening, my features sharpening, until it was her face staring back at me, with a triumphant glint.

I now spend my days confined to my room, staring into mirrors, because I’m afraid of what I might see in the world beyond them. One day, I know, I will see myself looking back from every reflective surface, and I will step through. Until then, I wait. I am Elara. I am the girl who drowned. And I am the girl who lives.