catmadeofglass

“Highly doubtful, but let’s see you try.”

“Alright, here we go! Once upon a midnight gloomy, there was a little town with cobbled streets and creaky houses. Now, these folks? They liked to leave their doors open, their windows cracked, and their lights out—y’know, the perfect setup for an uninvited guest.”

“Seems irresponsible to me.”

“What did the guest look like, Barnaby?…”

“Glad you asked, Walls! This guest didn’t have a shape, or a face, or even a body you could see. But oh, you could feel it. Just like that tickle in the back of your throat when you know you’re about to sneeze but it just won’t happen.”

“A ticklish ghost? Terrifying.”

“Patience, Frank! So one night, a lady in her cottage hears this raspy, scritch-scratchin’ sound from her window. She gets up, opens it wide—without thinkin’, naturally—and sees nothin’ but fog. But when she turns around, she finds… a trail of little wet footprints, each one inching closer to her bed.”

“Maybe it was a cat…”

“That’s what she thought! She followed those footprints, muttering about how her old tabby must be trackin’ mud everywhere, but then… the prints stopped right in the middle of her room. The air grew heavy, like someone was watchin’, and when she turned around… BAM! There it was: her own reflection in the mirror, smilin’ at her in the dark!”

“Barnaby, you’re not even trying! It’s just her reflection.”

“Ah, but here’s the thing, Frankie. She tried to look away… but couldn’t. Her reflection moved when she didn’t, smilin’ wider and wider till her face split open—”

“Nonsense! That’s not how reflections work.”

“It was then she heard a whisper… soft, and slithery. It said: ‘Look closer.’ And like somethin’ had taken over her, she leaned in, closer and closer, till her nose was nearly pressed to the glass. And right before her eyes… she saw it. A face in her reflection’s mouth—a face that wasn’t hers. The mirror was swallowin’ her up, draggin’ her right inside!”

”…That’s ridiculous.”

“Then what happened, Barnaby?…”

“They say she was never seen again… but sometimes, folks in that town would walk by that same house, and on certain nights, they’d see her face in the window, smilin’ back. And the scratchin’… well, it never stopped. They just don’t know if it’s her scratchin’ to get out… or if something else is in there, scratchin’ to come out.”

Barnaby’s smile fades, his voice lowering to a whisper.

“Sometimes, if you’re very quiet and listen real close… you might hear it, too.”

For a moment, the room goes silent. Even Frank finds himself glancing in the distance, his protests dying on his lips.

“I liked that story, Barnaby. It was… cozy.”

“Cozy? Yikes, Walls, remind me never to tell you a bedtime story!”