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The Ghost in the Mirror Shaina Tranquilino September 10, 2024

Detective James Harlan had seen his fair share of strange cases, but nothing could have prepared him for the mirror. It was a cold, gray evening when he first encountered it. The sky threatened rain, and the shadows of the city loomed long and distorted as Harlan stood in front of the old curiosity shop on the corner of Willow Street. The store was set to be demolished the following week, its last few days spent selling off an assortment of peculiar antiques and oddities.

Harlan wasn't one for curiosities, but something had drawn him inside—an invisible pull that led him through the cluttered aisles to the back of the store, where an ornate, dusty mirror stood propped against the wall. The mirror’s frame was heavy and intricately carved, dark wood curling into what seemed like a thousand twisted faces, each one more grotesque than the last.

The shopkeeper, a frail old man with sunken eyes and trembling hands, had appeared beside him as if summoned by his curiosity.

"Ah, the mirror," the shopkeeper rasped, his voice a mere whisper of sound. "You're the first person to show any interest in it. Most people avoid it… say it gives them the creeps."

Harlan, skeptical but intrigued, asked, "What's the story behind it?"

The old man hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he studied the detective’s face. "They say it’s cursed, haunted by a restless spirit. It belonged to a woman who… who was murdered many years ago. They say if you look into it long enough, you can see the past… see things that shouldn’t be seen."

Despite the chill creeping up his spine, Harlan found himself drawn to the mirror. It was as if it had a voice of its own, whispering to him, beckoning him to look deeper, to see what lay beyond the surface.

The shopkeeper’s bony hand gripped Harlan’s arm, his voice a desperate warning. "Take it if you must, but know this: the mirror demands a price. It will give you what you seek, but it will take something in return."

Harlan, always one to dismiss superstition, paid the old man and took the mirror with him. He told himself it was just a peculiar antique, nothing more. A piece of history to decorate his apartment.

But as soon as he hung the mirror on the wall of his living room, strange things began to happen.

At first, it was subtle—a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, a faint whisper on the edge of his hearing. But as the days passed, the visions became clearer, more intense.

One night, as he sat alone with a glass of whiskey, Harlan found himself staring into the mirror, unable to look away. The room around him began to fade, and in its place, a scene unfolded within the glass.

He saw a woman, her face pale and frightened, running through the woods. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she glanced over her shoulder, terror etched into her features. Behind her, a figure loomed, a man with a knife glinting in the moonlight.

Harlan watched in horror as the man caught up to her, dragging her to the ground. The woman’s screams echoed in his mind as the knife descended, again and again, until the woods were silent.

The vision faded, leaving Harlan staring at his own haunted reflection, his heart pounding in his chest. He recognized the scene—it was an unsolved murder from twenty years ago, a cold case that had haunted the precinct for years.

Driven by an obsession he couldn’t explain, Harlan dove into the old case files the next day. The details matched perfectly. The victim, the location, even the murder weapon. The mirror had shown him the truth, the answer to a mystery that had eluded detectives for decades.

He began to spend every night in front of the mirror, searching for more. And the mirror obliged. Each time he looked into it, another crime unfolded before his eyes—unsolved murders, disappearances, cold cases long forgotten by the world. Harlan solved them all, bringing justice to victims whose voices had been silenced for too long.

But with each case he solved, Harlan felt something slipping away from him. His energy, his spirit, his very sense of self seemed to dwindle. The mirror took its toll, draining him bit by bit, just as the old shopkeeper had warned.

One evening, after months of this relentless pursuit, Harlan looked into the mirror and saw a face he recognized all too well—his own.

He was standing in his apartment, holding a gun, his eyes empty and hollow. Before him, a man lay crumpled on the floor, a pool of blood spreading beneath him. Harlan’s hand trembled as he watched the scene unfold, as he watched himself commit a crime that hadn’t yet happened.

He staggered back from the mirror, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The mirror had shown him the future, and it was a future he could not escape.

Desperate, he tried to rid himself of the mirror, to break the curse that had ensnared him. He took a hammer to it, smashing the glass into a thousand glittering shards. But even in the broken pieces, he could still see the scenes playing out, could still hear the whispers of the past echoing in his mind.

There was no escape. The mirror had claimed him, body and soul.

In the days that followed, Harlan’s colleagues noticed the change in him. He became distant, paranoid, his once sharp mind dulled by an unseen weight. They didn’t understand what had happened to him, didn’t know about the mirror or the horrors it had revealed.

And then, one night, Harlan disappeared.

They found his apartment empty, the shattered mirror lying in a heap on the floor. But of Harlan, there was no sign. It was as if he had vanished into thin air.

The cold cases he had solved were closed, the victims finally at peace. But the price had been steep, too steep. Detective James Harlan was never seen again, his fate sealed within the haunted glass that had lured him to his doom.

And somewhere, in a forgotten corner of the city, a new curiosity shop opened its doors, with a new old mirror standing in the back, waiting for its next victim.

The Phantom Detective Shaina Tranquilino September 24, 2024

Detective Tammy Westbrook stared at the yellowing scrap of paper she had just pulled from the old filing cabinet in the precinct’s archives. Its corners curled with age, the ink faint but unmistakable: a name, an address, and a time. The handwriting was jagged and oddly familiar, as if she’d seen it before—but that was impossible. She had spent the past three nights buried in cold cases, trying to find some sort of breakthrough in a string of disappearances that had been haunting her city. Five people, gone without a trace over the last six months. No suspects. No witnesses. No clues.

Until now.

Her gaze lingered on the name at the bottom of the note: Detective Levi Cross.

Tammy frowned. Levi Cross had been a legend—once. He’d solved cases no one else could, seen patterns where others saw chaos. But he was no longer a detective. He wasn’t even alive. Cross had been dead for over fifty years.

How could his name be on a note about a case he could never have known?

The address was a run-down warehouse on the outskirts of town, a place Tammy had already been to twice during her investigation. Both times, she’d found nothing. Tonight, though, something told her it would be different.

As she prepared to leave, she slipped the note into her coat pocket, her thoughts swirling in uncertainty. The clock in her office read 10:45 PM. The time written on the note was 11:30 PM. She had less than an hour.

The warehouse loomed in the darkness, its rusted metal walls barely illuminated by the flickering streetlights. Tammy parked her car in the shadow of a crumbling building and made her way toward the entrance. The heavy doors creaked as she pushed them open, the sound echoing in the vast, empty space.

For a moment, the only thing she could hear was the soft drip of water from somewhere deep inside the warehouse. She glanced at her watch. 11:28 PM.

The moment she stepped forward, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, expecting to see a message from the precinct, but what she found made her breath catch in her throat.

The screen displayed a single text, no sender.

“Follow the light.”

As she read the words, a faint glow appeared in the distance, a soft, unnatural light filtering through the cracks in the far wall. Tammy's pulse quickened. She hadn’t noticed any light before.

She crossed the vast warehouse floor, her footsteps muffled by dust. As she approached the glowing wall, she realized the light was coming from behind a stack of decaying wooden crates. Pushing them aside, she found a small, hidden doorway. It had been sealed, the edges rusted shut, but now it stood slightly ajar.

She hesitated for a moment, her instincts warning her to turn back, but her curiosity overpowered her caution. She pulled the door open and stepped through.

The room beyond was smaller, musty, and barely furnished. But there, in the center, sat a table—and on it, another note, identical in texture to the one she’d found earlier. She approached cautiously, her fingers trembling as she picked it up.

“The answers are in the past, Detective Westbrook. Dig deeper.”

She blinked in disbelief. Whoever was sending these messages knew her. They knew about the case. They knew about her personally. But how?

“Who are you?” Tammy whispered, her voice swallowed by the silence.

There was no response. Only the faint drip of water, the oppressive darkness, and the eerie glow that now seemed to dim.

She pocketed the note, her mind spinning. If she wanted answers, she needed to look into Levi Cross. It seemed insane—how could a dead man be involved? But whoever was sending these messages knew things only Cross could have known. That was impossible, unless—

Unless Cross wasn’t as dead as everyone thought.

Back at the precinct, Tammy combed through the archives, pulling every file connected to Levi Cross. His last case had been in 1971, a series of brutal murders that had gone unsolved. Cross had been obsessed with it—according to old reports, he’d spent months following leads that led nowhere, until one night, he vanished. His body had never been found.

Tammy stared at a grainy photograph of Cross. His sharp eyes seemed to bore into her even through the faded image. There was something almost familiar about him, as if she’d seen that intensity before.

She flipped through the reports again. Among them was a photocopy of his personal journal, filled with cryptic notes and musings about his cases. One entry caught her eye, dated just days before his disappearance:

“The pattern repeats. The city calls for its protector. I will not be there to answer, but someone will.”

Chills ran down her spine.

That night, she barely slept, her dreams filled with the image of Levi Cross, standing in the shadows, always just out of reach.

The next morning, Tammy visited the last known address of Cross’s old partner, Frank Harris. Harris had retired years ago, but if anyone knew more about Cross, it would be him.

She found the aging detective in a modest house on the edge of town, sitting by the window, watching the world go by.

“Harris,” Tammy began, after introducing herself. “I’m looking into Levi Cross’s old cases. I need to know—did he ever mention anything about coming back? About finishing what he started?”

The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Cross? You’re barking up a haunted tree, kid. Cross was… different, but he didn’t believe in ghosts.”

Tammy handed him the notes she’d found, her breath catching as she saw his expression change.

“This is his handwriting,” Harris muttered, his voice barely a whisper. “But that’s not possible. He’s been dead for decades.”

Tammy leaned forward. “Do you think he could still be out there? Trying to finish what he started?”

Harris shook his head slowly. “Cross was a great detective, but he wasn’t immortal. If someone’s leaving you these notes, it’s not him.”

Tammy left, more confused than ever. Yet as she drove back to the precinct, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Levi Cross wasn’t entirely gone.

That night, another note awaited her on her desk. It simply read:

“The final piece is where it all began.”

Tammy stood in front of the old, crumbling house that had once belonged to Levi Cross. The air was thick with the weight of history, the building abandoned, forgotten. She stepped inside, the floor creaking beneath her boots.

In the corner of the darkened living room, she saw it—a stack of old newspapers, files, and notes, untouched for decades. Among them, another letter, waiting for her:

“I never left, Detective Westbrook. The truth is buried here. Finish what I could not.”

She looked around, realizing the truth. Cross hadn’t been sending her these messages from beyond the grave—he had died all those years ago. But in his obsession, in his determination to solve the unsolvable, he had left behind a trail. A phantom detective, still working through her, guiding her to the final clue.

Tammy knelt down and sifted through the files. There, beneath the dust and time, she found it—the key to solving both Cross’s final case and the disappearances haunting her city.

Levi Cross had never stopped investigating.

And now, neither would she.