Rachel tried to scream—at least, she tried to. I felt the shock ripple through her like an electric current, sharp and violent, but not a single sound left her throat. The air swallowed it whole. And just like that, the second reflection vanished.
She stared into the mirror, trembling, her breaths shallow and uneven. "It was nothing," she whispered to herself. "Just my head. Just stress. Right?"
I wished I could agree. I wished it for her sake. But what I saw wasn't a flicker. That thing had no eyes, no nose—just a wide, unnatural smile carved across a face that shouldn't exist. Rachel had only seen a vague outline. So how did I see the details? How did I see more than the body I'm possessing? Was I overthinking it? Or was something… wrong with me?
Rachel didn't want to talk. She opened her laptop, put on a random movie at full volume, and crawled under her blanket. "I need noise," she muttered. "I can't be alone right now."
"I'm here," I told her.
She rolled her eyes at the ceiling. "You're not exactly helping."
That stung more than I expected.
Eventually, she drifted off, the movie still playing softly in the background. Her breathing settled into something steady, almost peaceful. Mine didn't. Because whatever had stood behind her in that reflection—it hadn't felt lost. It hadn't felt like a harmless flicker passing by.
It felt like it was looking for something.
And I had the sinking feeling it wasn't Rachel.
We returned to college today and were greeted with terrible news. Five students had gone missing in the past week—three of them from ours. It was all anyone could talk about. Kathy hadn't been coming to campus much, but her boyfriend was still around. Rachel texted her just to be sure, and Kathy replied that she'd heard the news too, but she was fine.
Ezra, on the other hand, hadn't attended classes at all. He was clearly up to something, and whatever it was couldn't be good, judging by the state he'd been in. I couldn't help wondering if everything was connected—the disappearances, the ghosts, the sleepless nights—or was it just an awful coincidence that everything was spiraling at the same time.
The next day, something unsettling happened. We saw Kathy in the hallway, wearing long sleeves pulled all the way up to her neck. She looked like herself, but dimmer somehow. Less bright. Less alive. Kathy was never subtle. She usually walked with that effortless confidence—shoulders back, chin up, the kind of presence that filled a hallway without trying. But today she moved small. Shoulders slouched. Steps quiet. As if someone had drained the spine right out of her. It was like looking at a completely different person.
Later, in the washroom, Rachel caught a glimpse of her arm when she reached for her bag—dark, angry bruises wrapping around her forearm. The first thing out of Rachel's mouth—our mouth—was, "Is your boyfriend hurting you?" Kathy froze. For a moment, she looked genuinely terrified. Then she forced a smile and shook her head. "No. It's nothing." She tried to brush past us as though nothing had happened. We wanted to push, to ask again, but she wouldn't look at us. She wouldn't answer.
That evening, Rachel decided she should talk to Miss Rosaline, but then paused. "Maybe I should ask Kathy's permission first," she whispered to me. I agreed. So she called Kathy and explained that she was worried and planned to speak to Miss Rosaline if Kathy didn't open up. To our surprise, Kathy softened. "Can I come over? I'll tell you everything."
We said yes. For a moment, it felt like we were doing something right.
Then the doorbell rang.
Miss Rosaline. Of course. The worst possible timing.
She stepped inside before Rachel could come up with an excuse. "I wanted to check in," she said. "With everything happening, I'm visiting students who've been struggling. This is my fifth visit today."
Rachel tried to be polite and send her away, but Miss Rosaline insisted. The disappearances, she explained, meant she had to check on students who seemed… off.
Rachel looked at me in the mirror, wide-eyed. This is going to look like a setup.
While Miss Rosaline settled in the living room, we grabbed Rachel's phone and texted Kathy: Don't come. Miss Rosaline showed up.
Too late.
The doorbell rang again. Kathy stood there, staring past Rachel at Miss Rosaline on the sofa. Her eyes narrowed with instant distrust. Rachel tried explaining, but Kathy's expression had already closed off. Then she glanced down at the message on her screen. She looked up slowly.
"I should go," she said.
But Miss Rosaline smiled pleasantly. "No need. You're also on my list. It will save me a visit if you stay." I felt Rachel's heart stumble. Mine, too. This was going to get complicated.
We all sat in the living room, staring at each other while Miss Rosaline asked her usual gentle questions—how we were coping, handling everything, how Kathy was adjusting to her new life here. It felt almost normal until she asked, "Why are you covering yourself like this?"
Rachel stiffened. Did she see the bruises? Rachel's wide-eyed look in the mirror said exactly what I was thinking: Does it look like we snitched?
Kathy tried to play it off, smiling too brightly. "What do you mean? I've always dressed like this."
Miss Rosaline didn't smile back. She looked at Kathy's arms. "I meant your hands, not your face."
There was a pause, then a small laugh from Kathy. "Oh—it's nothing."
But Miss Rosaline wasn't convinced. Her eyes were flat. "Let me rephrase. What are you hiding under those bruises?"
Silence fell over the room. Kathy's face drained of color. "Are you feeling unsettled here?" Miss Rosaline continued, her tone steady. "So much so that you need… attention?"
Rachel's heart lurched. What the hell? What we'd seen on Kathy's arm had looked real—nothing like makeup or a performance. Was she faking it? And if so, why?
I almost jumped in, but Rachel stopped me. She was always the patient one. The observer.
Kathy stared at her hands. When she finally spoke, her voice was small. "I have my reasons." She stood. "If that's all, I'll leave."
But Miss Rosaline didn't blink. "Sit."
She didn't say it loudly. She didn't need to. Something in her voice made my skin crawl. Kathy obeyed immediately—no hesitation, no argument—just quiet compliance. Miss Rosaline could be terrifying when she chose to be. Definitely not someone you want to challenge.
As the conversation continued, it began to feel less like a visit and more like an interrogation wrapped in polite words. Kathy insisted it was nothing—that the fake bruises were her way of coping, that she'd always had a flair for drama and sometimes needed attention. But Miss Rosaline wasn't buying any of it. She shifted tactics seamlessly: first sympathy, then logic, then gentle disappointment, and finally a quiet, unblinking stare that could've made a criminal confess.
Kathy's voice grew thinner with every question. Each answer sounded like it scraped her throat raw. Rachel and I could only sit there silently, like kids caught overhearing things they shouldn't.
Miss Rosaline had a way of grounding the room—measuring everyone, weighing every word, and making you feel like she already knew the truth before you said anything.
Eventually, Rachel glanced at me in the reflection of the black TV screen. I knew exactly what she was thinking. We needed a break.
"Would you both like something to drink?" she asked, her voice too bright. "Water? Tea?"
Miss Rosaline nodded without taking her eyes off Kathy.
We slipped into the kitchen. Even there, the air felt tight. Rachel leaned both hands on the counter, trying to steady her breathing. "She's going to break her," she whispered.
Maybe she needs to, I thought, though I didn't say it.
We poured two glasses of water and took longer than necessary adding ice—anything to buy time. But when we returned, Kathy was perched on the edge of the sofa, fists clenched, looking on the verge of tears. Miss Rosaline leaned forward, her expression all sharp angles, no warmth left. The air felt charged, storm-like.
Rachel held out the glass, her hand trembling just enough for the ice to rattle.
And then—
The doorbell rang.
For a moment, no one moved.
Rachel's heart dropped.
God, we both thought, how many visitors can we possibly have in one day?
Who could this be now?