Mirror, Mirror!

WHO'S THE FAIREST OF THEM ALL?

A short story by Justine Castellon

Once upon a time, in the sun-kissed stretch of Golden State, there was a quaint village named Canata, where the not-so-rich and not-so-famous tried their best to shine. Among them lived Margaret Van Cleef, a 46-year-old woman whose hormones seemed to have signed an eviction notice and were now staging a dramatic exodus. Margaret had a petite frame, mocha-toned skin, and a personality as sharp as the eyeliner pencil she wielded with meticulous care. She resided in a creaky two-story house, a structure stubbornly standing despite whispering protests from its foundation. Her only companion? A judgmental ginger tabby named Mandy, whose silent scorn seemed as eternal as the house’s groaning walls.

Every morning, like clockwork, Margaret performed a ritual she considered sacred. She parked herself before her oversized, outrageously gaudy antique mirror, a piece that felt less décor and more like it had escaped from the estate sale of a haunted mansion. It was the grand centerpiece of her bedroom, or as Margaret thought of it, her sanctuary.

The house sighed deeply, groaning in a long, guttural creak that crawled through the silence. Margaret didn’t flinch. Sitting perched atop a narrow velvet-tufted stool—as if it were some kind of throne—she leaned toward her mirror, elbows framing her face like parentheses. Thin shoulder blades and almost-flat bottoms pressed against the stool’s backless cushion. The mirror was the heart of this little kingdom, and in it, Margaret could see, well, everything. Especially herself.

The mirror was a beast of a thing. With clawed feet carved from wood and tarnished edges, its gilded filigree twisted and curled like vines trying to strangle it. The surface wasn’t perfect. Time had scratched and rippled the glass, distortions so subtle they might have escaped anyone else’s notice. Margaret noticed. She noticed everything. But her reflection agreed with her most of the time, so why care?

“Mirror, mirror, who’s the prettiest in this town?” She asked with a tight, glossy smile, her voice just loud enough to fill the void of solitude. It carried the forced lightness of someone who believed the universe should be paying attention. For a moment, there was silence.

Then came Mandy's slow, disdainful hum, curled on the bed behind her. The cat’s tail flicked once, a lazy punctuation to emphasize her judgment.

Margaret's eyes flicked to the feline. “I’m glad someone appreciates my effort to preserve this,” she said, waving a hand toward her reflection as though to crown herself with invisible laurels. Talking to Mandy had become second nature. “Not that you’d understand. You do nothing but roll in catnip and call it a day.”

Mandy blinked slowly, then turned her back to Margaret as if to say pathetic.

Satisfied she’d won that round, Margaret turned her attention to her reflection. She leaned closer, inspecting every pore, every faint line carved by time. Her polished mask slipped for a moment, her lips pressing tight as her fingers traced delicately over a wrinkle threatening to deepen. “You’re fine. Perfect, even,” she whispered to herself. Then, louder, more commanding, “You’re timeless. They’d kill to look like you.”

Her mantra was interrupted by the loud bell ring coming from her main door. She glanced at the window and grimaced. “Ah, just the postman.” She hurried downstairs and pick her mail and another town newsletter. She opened them as she returned to her room, scrolling numbly past photos of women she despised. There was Elaine Baker, smiling with that irritating tilt of her chin, pure as fresh snow. Margaret’s lips curled slightly.

“Elaine,” she muttered, her voice dripping with distaste. “Miss-Look-at-Me-I-Bake-Cookies-and-Save-Kittens. You think I don’t see the way you prance around?” She sneered, grabbed her lipstick, and painted it on in sharp, merciless strokes. “Too sweet. Men hate that, you know. Too polite, too dull. No edge. That’s why they gravitate... elsewhere.” Her eyes sparkled at the reflection in the glass, her conversation with herself morphing into something conspiratorial. “And by elsewhere, I mean me.”

What Margaret would never say aloud—not even to herself, at least not directly—is that she hated Elaine because of how easy things seemed for her. That effortless kindness, that unassuming grace. It grated. After their last social gathering, Margaret had planned to deal with Elaine, where the younger woman dared to correct her on something trivial.

“It wasn’t even important,” Margaret told her reflection. “But the principle, you know? There’s no excuse for insubordination, not from her.” She picked up her powder brush and dabbed aggressively at her cheeks. “She needs to learn her place. A few whispers here, a tear there… I’m doing her a favor. Strengthening her. She’ll thank me one day.”

Her reflection nodded approvingly.

It didn’t take much effort to spin her narrative. Margaret always had the ear of the right people ––meaning the town gossipers–– especially the ones who came alive gossiping over lunch dates. Her stories about Elaine were vague enough to spark curiosity, dramatic enough to take root in idle imaginations and blossom. “Poor me,” Margaret would lament through soft tears, recounting fabricated slights. “She’s been so... dismissive. Downright mean. I can’t understand why. I’ve always supported her. Even treated her as a friend!”

And just like always, Margaret knew they would take her side. Why couldn’t they? They envied Elaine’s youth and accomplishments, too. So they’d squeeze Margaret’s hand, assure her she was in the right, and eventually, someone would whisper, “Elaine’s changed. I’ve noticed it, too.” The fallout would be inevitable.

Margaret’s whispers, laced with feigned concern and crocodile tears, found willing ears among her circle of friends. Slowly, those lies took root, growing into a tangled web of rumors too thick to cut through. What began as murmurs of doubt turned into vocal disdain, and soon, even kind acquaintances distanced themselves from Elaine.

They withdrew their warmth and invitations one by one, replacing them with cold shoulders and polite silences. The weight of isolation pressed heavier with each passing day until Elaine, overwhelmed by confusion and heartache, made the difficult decision to leave town. She hadn’t just lost her social circle; she’d lost her trust in people. A once bright presence had been dimmed, left to fade somewhere else, far from the shadows of Margaret’s calculated destruction.

Mandy’s tail flicked again, interrupting her thoughts.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she hissed at the cat, who sat perched on the armrest, her green eyes unblinking and full of judgment. “Elaine should’ve known better. She’s a narcissist!”

Margaret threw the word out like a dart, she assumed would always hit its mark. Truth be told, Margaret had a habit of labeling anyone who inconvenienced her as a “narcissist.” Cut her off in the grocery aisle? Narcissist. Took the last blueberry muffin at the bakery? Total narcissist. Even Mandy, who had endured this tirade one too many times, gave a slow, deliberate blink as if to say, Really? Are we doing this again?

Who could forget Carlito? The 34-year-old painter from another town who had once wandered into Canata and, against all odds, found himself utterly enchanted by Margaret. He had a quiet demeanor and a pair of soulful eyes. To him, Margaret was a puzzle wrapped in satin gloves. Perhaps it was her laugh, or the faint perfume that lingered when she passed. Or maybe, deep down, Carlito missed his mother more than he dared admit, and Margaret’s presence scratched at that bittersweet void.

He showed his appreciation the only way he knew how—with painted wildflowers pressed into small frames and baskets of warm baked goods. He left them on her doorstep with shy notes written in his distinct, flowing script. Margaret accepted every gift graciously, though never without a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Go on, darling,” she’d say behind closed doors, turning the wildflowers in her hand. “Bring me another, won’t you? Paint me the moon next time, why don’t you?”

Margaret didn’t encourage him out of affection. No, her motives were far more calculated. To her, Carlito wasn’t a suitor. He was an opportunity. “The town should see this,” she mused aloud one evening, sipping her tea. “A talented painter, head over heels for someone like me. Oh, they’ll talk about it for months.”

And talk they did. But the whispers weren’t enough for Margaret. She wanted more. She wanted drama –– that kind of attention fueled her soul. So she planted seeds of doubt, spinning tales of Carlito’s supposed arrogance. “He’s a narcissist, you know,” she confided to the bakery ladies as she plucked a lemon tart from the display one morning. “Frankly, his obsession with me is… it’s exhausting. My mental health is in shambles.”

By the time Carlito arrived for his last visit, the town had turned against him. Margaret watched from the safety of her lace-curtained window as a mob of angry townsfolk confronted the poor painter in the plaza. He tried to explain, gripping a canvas wrapped in brown paper, but shouts and jeers swallowed his soft voice. It ended with him stumbling away, his offerings crushed underfoot and his blue scarf trailing like a ghost in the dust. Still perched by the window, Margaret touched her lips in mock distress. Then she let a slow, satisfied smile spread across her face.

“Look at that,” she murmured to herself, her reflection faint against the glass. “Men are willing to die for my beauty.”

But time has a way of filling cracks with irony, and Margaret’s smug satisfaction was not exempt. Months after leaving Canata in humiliation, Carlito staged the most successful art exhibit the city had seen in years. What began with cautious interest soon bloomed into a tidal wave of admiration. Each painting told a story, vivid and haunting, with a blend of colors so raw they seemed to bleed emotion. The talk of the city soon spread to neighboring towns, where everyone sang the same refrain in one way or another:

“Whoever wins Carlito’s heart is the luckiest soul alive.”

Margaret heard the whispers during a Sunday market trip. The bakery ladies had their noses buried deep in a newspaper splashed with Carlito’s face, glowing and triumphant. She clutched her purse tightly, rolling the words over in her mind like sharp pebbles. She couldn’t decide whether the knot in her stomach was envy or pride.

Still, she tilted her head with her signature air of indifference and looked at Mandy, “See how fickle people’s minds are? One moment, he’s a disgrace. The next, a hero. Hmph.”

The cat tilted her head, her tail swishing like a metronome, clearly unimpressed. If Mandy could talk, she’d say, “Takes one to know one, lady.”

Margaret tightened the scarf around her neck, took one last approving glance in the mirror, and stood. Mandy, still unimpressed, stretched lazily. The house groaned again in the distance.

“Ugh, even my house judges me,” she muttered, pressing her fingers to her temples like she could knead the headache away. Her words hung in the air, bitter and sharp, as if daring the walls to respond. “Fine. I’ll go to church. I’ll pray for all those sinners,” she added, her tone dripping with faux righteousness. The kind that could curdle milk.

The wooden stairs creaked beneath her steps as she walked toward the door, each groan of the old house feeling like an accusation. Shadows clung stubbornly to the corners, their dark fingers stretching outward as if reluctant to release her. Behind her, the mirror stood still on the wall, its glossy surface an impartial witness to the charade unraveling in its frame.

It reflected a woman cloaked in contradictions: a sharp tongue dressed up in devotion, a veneer of piety barely concealing the venom underneath. The mirror stayed silent, unblinking, but its voice would cut like glass if it could speak. It would point out the irony, the audacity of someone so wrapped in malice invoking God’s name like a shield.

Still, the woman never looked back at her reflection. She didn’t need to. Somewhere deep down, she knew all too well what the mirror would say.

That day, after kneeling in front of the church altar, she wandered around the town plaza.  There, she met him outside a dimly lit pub, the kind of place where secrets linger in the air like cigarette smoke. His name was Daniel. He introduced himself with a crooked grin, his voice low and melodic—the kind that hinted at trouble. He was a musician, fresh to Canata, carrying nothing but a battered guitar case and an aura of effortless rebellion. Margaret was hooked at first glance.

Daniel was everything she couldn’t resist. The unruly mop of dark hair seemed allergic to combs. The scruffy stubble that screamed he’d never met a razor he liked. And the tattoos that wound up his arms like whispered promises of stories too wild to tell. He wasn’t just her type; he was the blueprint. And, he’s about her age.

Margaret felt her heart skip every time Daniel’s attention flickered her way. He radiated a careless confidence, throwing her scraps of charm that landed with the impact of a meteor. She giggled at his jokes, whether they were funny or not, basking in the way his teasing words lifted her mood like sunlight slicing through storm clouds. It wasn’t love—not quite. It was something quieter, but no less potent. Magnetic. Addictive. Dangerous.

And then came Claire.

She arrived like an uninvited guest at a party, slipping in so seamlessly that Margaret didn’t notice at first. But Daniel did. His smiles softened, no longer cocky but tender. His gestures found a new warmth, his fingers brushing Claire’s arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. Margaret saw it all. The shift was subtle but undeniable. To Daniel, it was nothing more than the flow of his easy charm. To Margaret, it was nothing short of betrayal.

Where his gaze once hovered over her, lingering just long enough to leave her breathless, it now floated toward Claire with ease that stung sharper than any insult. It wasn’t what he said or did. It was what he didn’t say, the way his attention poured into Claire without effort. Margaret could feel it slipping away, like trying to hold water in her cupped hands. And as much as she hated to admit it, she couldn’t decide what hurt more—that Daniel had turned away from her, or that Claire was enjoying the attention and returning it.

Blindsided and enraged, Margaret’s reaction was swift and ruthless. Like poison dripping steadily into a clear stream, her words spread among her social circle. “Claire?” she’d begin with an incredulous laugh that hinted at secrets she wasn’t yet ready to share. “Oh, darling, I wouldn’t trust her as far as I can throw her. Did you know she’s been stealing ideas? And destroying relationships, too, flirting with married men. It’s disgusting, really.” The accusations grew more unhinged as her bitterness snowballed until Claire became an unwitting villain in Margaret’s fabricated drama.

It didn’t take long for whispers to morph into wary glances at Claire during gatherings. Margaret saw every shift and small victory and savored them with a satisfaction that felt almost as good as Daniel’s once-dedicated attention.

But Claire wasn’t one to crumble quietly.

One afternoon, Daniel approached Claire, his brows furrowed with worry as he handed her a steaming coffee. “Why are you letting her get away with this?” he asked, his voice tinged with frustration. “You’ve heard what she’s been saying. Don’t you care what people think?”

Claire sipped her coffee with a small, calm smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Daniel, I’m not letting her get away with anything,” she said, finally setting her cup down. “One day, Margaret will have to drink her own poison.”

Daniel tilted his head, visibly confused. Claire leaned forward slightly, her voice softer now. “She’s already living her punishment. Look at her. Alone in that big, cold house of hers with only her voice echoing back.” Claire’s gaze dropped briefly, and for a moment, her tone faltered, tinged with quiet sadness. “There’s no family at her table on Thanksgiving. No one brings gifts or laughter to her Christmases. No one rings her doorbell just to say hello… she has to find them and feed them with gossip…but no one comes just to be with her. Every single day, karma is catching up to her, Daniel. What could I possibly do to her worse than what she’s done to herself?”

Her words hung in the air long after she’d spoken, rippling through Daniel’s thoughts like a stone tossed into still water. Unknown to them, across the street, Margaret stood there, watching. No, more of glaring at them. Seething with anger and envy.

Margaret felt the sting of betrayal like a slap across the face, just like when she first noticed Daniel’s attention wandering elsewhere. It wasn’t a slow drift, not the kind that sneaks up on you in polite increments. No, this felt deliberate. Intentional. Cruel. He smiled at Claire with a warmth Margaret hadn’t realized she wanted so badly until it was aimed at someone else. And Claire… Claire had the audacity to smile back—that air-headed, saccharine grin, as if she were innocent of the crime taking place.

By the time Margaret got home that evening, her mind was racing. She paced the length of her living room, heels clicking furiously against the hardwood floor. Mandy tracked her movements from her perch on the armchair, noticeably unimpressed.

“How dare she?” Margaret hissed, swiping at the air as if Claire’s ghost had joined the evening tirade. “After everything I’ve done for this town, for Daniel! And what does she do? Slink in and sink her claws into him like some cheap soap opera villain.”

Mandy blinked, her amber eyes flattening with disinterest. Margaret ignored her. She didn’t need anyone’s approval but her own.

The next morning, Margaret moved with purpose, her every step charged with the kind of energy that comes from a deliciously wicked plan. The rumors churned through the town like a storm catching dry leaves, swift and chaotic. Margaret, of course, was the storm’s eager eye.

To anyone who would listen, she painted Claire as a master of manipulation. She described with gusto how Claire had betrayed locals, sabotaged cherished community projects, and, with air so scandalized it could have won her an Oscar, accused Claire of spreading the sordid lie about the mayor’s wife and her gardener. Margaret even hinted at shady dealings so vague that they perched perfectly between possibility and outright gossip. Every falsehood dripped effortlessly from her lips, sweet and sticky as honey, leaving her audience hungry, leaning in for more.

By midweek, she had outdone even herself. Now the small town thrived on a tale so over-the-top, it bordered on theatrical. She spun a yarn about a party, where Claire had supposedly overheard Margaret and Daniel sharing an inside joke. The slight, real or imaginary, had apparently burnt Claire alive with jealousy. “Poor, dear Claire,” Margaret sighed dramatically to a small, wide-eyed group of neighbors. Her hand fluttered like a wounded bird to her chest, a movement so practiced it seemed instinctive. “Her own insecurities eat her up. It’s simply... heartbreaking.”

Her audience nodded gravely, whispering their agreement, their heads full of images Margaret had expertly conjured. She watched their reactions with quiet satisfaction, the corners of her lips pulling into a delicate, almost imperceptible smirk. Every word, every glance, every calculated sigh was another thread in the elaborate tapestry she was weaving, and Margaret planned to make sure it wrapped tightly around Claire before anyone else could unwind it.

But in the privacy of her bedroom, the satisfaction began to sour. Margaret stood before her antique mirror, its edges thick with dust she hadn’t had the energy to polish. This wasn’t like her. She thrived on control. The mirror had always been her ally, holding a reflection as comforting as a curated postcard. But lately, it had turned fickle. Fault lines spider-webbed across its surface, tiny fractures spreading outward like a disease. It was wrong. It felt personal. She prided herself on repairing cracks in her life, never letting them show—but this? This was betrayal in its purest form.

Her fingers, adorned with rings that clicked lightly against the dressing table, hovered over a jar of cream labeled with ridiculous promises. ‘Revives the youth of your early 20s!’ it proclaimed. It was a lie, but Margaret was willing to believe in such moments. She dabbed a bit under her eyes, her reflection leaning in to match her, scrutinizing every movement.

“The nerve of her,” Margaret grumbled softly, the fingers of one hand clasping the edge of the table with white-knuckled intensity. Her eyes flickered to the reflection, where her face stared back with that same distant disdain she’d seen in Daniel’s glance. “Trying to steal what’s mine... She’s desperate. That’s what it is. People see desperation, and they pity it. But they never respect it.”

Mandy stirred across the room, jumping from her throne-like armchair to take an unhurried stroll across the carpet. Margaret caught her movement in the mirror, the feline’s amber eyes staring behind her. “What are you looking at?” Margaret snapped, her voice jagged and abrupt.

The cat answered by leaping onto the dressing table without permission, nudging a lipstick with her paw until it rolled lazily toward the floor. Margaret scooped it up before it fell.

“You’d side with Claire, wouldn’t you?” she muttered. Mandy didn’t react. “Of course you would. That’s the thing about women like her. They’re...” she paused, searching. “...disingenuous. Everyone just laps it up like cream in a saucer, ignoring what’s beneath.”

She fell silent as her reflection shifted, her words suspended in the tense air. For a moment, Margaret swore the person in the mirror wasn’t moving in time with her, but when she leaned forward again, the illusion broke. Her face, her perfect face—even through the hairline fractures of the glass, there she was in all her polished fury.

But then there was the shadow. It appeared just at the edge of the glass, flitting by so briefly she might’ve ignored it if her insides hadn’t curled deep with unease. Her breath caught, a sharp intake that fogged the glass in bursts. Slowly, she turned her head toward the source. The curtain, directly behind her, pulled tight. It was perfectly still.

Margaret bit her lip hard enough to feel the sting. “Paranoia.” The word was whispered like a confession. “That’s what this is. Stress, nerves… Daniel. Claire. They don’t matter.” She paused. “Or at least… they won’t soon.”

“Margaret,” a voice echoed faintly. It was soft, almost imagined. She turned sharply toward the door, finding nothing except Mandy, watching, patient, and knowing.

When no shadows reappeared, Margaret pushed away her unease like smoothing a wrinkle in her otherwise perfect morning. Focus, she told herself sharply. She was just tired. She hadn’t slept well—not for weeks, not since… well, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that she looked impeccable by the time she walked into the bakery café. All those women, trembling over their almond milk lattes and their children's never-ending piano recitals, would glance up at her, pause mid-sentence, and steal those jealous, darting looks that always made her chin lift a little higher.

“No one shines brighter than me,” Margaret declared to the mirror, her tone ironclad. Repetition was key. The ripples in the glass were there again, faint distortions chopping up her reflection like a poorly edited photo, but she ignored them. They weren’t real. And if they were, well, they had better learn.

Her beauty regimen was her armor, a ritual carried out with the precision of a monarch dressing for battle—primer, foundation, contour. The eyeliner was a needle-sharp black-winged masterpiece. The kind of look that didn’t just turn heads but made them swivel. When nearly finished, Margaret studied herself critically and flashed her smile. Wide, dazzling, deliberate. Like clockwork.

“Perfect,” she mouthed silently before leaning closer to catch her left cheekbone. Was it higher today? It looked higher. Or maybe the right side was slacking. The golden rays spilling through the window weren’t helping. Maybe her lighting was off again.

Behind her came Mandy's low, drawn-out hiss, a sound so sharp and sudden it felt like someone dragging a blade down Margaret’s spine. She flinched, turning swiftly, the hairbrush in her hand transforming into a makeshift weapon. “What is it now?” she snapped, her voice seasoned with irritation.

But Mandy wasn’t glaring at Margaret this time. The cat’s gaze was fixed on the darkened hallway beyond the bedroom door. Her fur puffed up in a rigid halo around her tiny frame. Margaret followed her line of sight, but the hallway remained stubbornly empty, an unfocused strip of shadows and silence.

Then the house groaned again, louder this time, a deep, aching creak reverberating through the walls. Margaret thought that if the sound could speak, it might’ve said something like, Leave. Or maybe Hello.

Her pulse stumbled. “Old houses,” she muttered, the words flimsy and paper-thin as she forced herself back to the mirror. Her footsteps felt heavier now, dragging like her will to stay calm. The reflection in the glass was waiting for her, silent and distorted, but still her.

Mostly.

“Get a grip,” Margaret hissed under her breath, her frustration slicing through the heavy stillness. “You’re the queen here. Act like it.” Her voice carried a sharp edge, the kind she used to intimidate lesser mortals, but her fingers betrayed her. They trembled, fumbling to brush away an invisible speck from her lap. She focused on that meaningless task like her life depended on, as if keeping her hands busy could steady the storm rolling in her chest.

After a shaky inhale, she straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, and marched out the door, slamming it behind her in a way that felt more like punctuation than necessity. The house could keep its whispering shadows and judgy silence, for all she cared. She had bigger things to do.

The walk to the plaza wasn’t long, but Margaret stretched it out, taking deliberately slow strides. Dappled sunlight filtered through the trees lining the cobbled streets, and the warm breeze played with her hair in an almost conspiratorial way. She needed this. An escape. A recharge.

When she arrived at the heart of town, Margaret’s heartbeat had steadied, and her lips tugged upward in a victorious smirk. The plaza was alive with its usual symphony of chatter and clinking porcelain cups from the café on the corner. Perfect, she thought, soaking in the buzz like a sunbather savoring the first rays of summer. Here, amidst the lively hum of gossip and the familiar faces bursting with unsolicited opinions, Margaret felt electric. Indispensable.

She settled on her favorite bench, right beneath the lamppost that offered the most flattering light if rumors about her were to start—including the ones she might subtly fan into existence herself. Crossing her legs with deliberate grace, she leaned back just far enough to give off an air of casual authority. This was Margaret’s domain—her kingdom. The town plaza wasn’t just where the gossip flowed; it was where she thrived. Every whispered scandal and raised eyebrow passed through her as if she were the conductor of this melodramatic orchestra.

From her vantage point, she took everything in at once. With her immaculate hair, Carol sat by the fountain, pretending not to eavesdrop. Old Mr. Thompson was on his usual bench, reading a paper Margaret suspected he hadn’t bothered to update in a decade. And there, across the plaza, Maggie and Sandy huddled together, their hushed tones and furtive glances almost begging for Margaret’s intervention.

“Well, well,” she said again, her voice louder this time, slicing through the air like the edge of a freshly sharpened blade. The cluster of women by the bakery’s window glanced her way, their heads tilting like birds scenting a change in the wind. Margaret’s grin widened. That’s right, darlings, look alive.

Adjusting her hat, she stood, smoothing the front of her dress as if preparing for battle—not that she’d admit to preparing for anything. Margaret didn’t prepare; she commanded.

“Ladies,” she sang as she crossed the plaza, her heels clicking with deliberate crispness on the cobblestones. Each click was a declaration, a call to attention. “Busy morning, isn’t it?”

The bakery group exchanged looks, a silent chorus of panic. None of them spoke immediately, but Margaret didn’t mind. The silence made room for her theatrics.

“Now, don’t all clam up at once,” she teased, her sly grin never faltering. “I’m not here to take your sugar buns or your seats. I simply… happened to overhear some whispers, and wouldn’t you know it, my curiosity got the better of me.”

One of the women, Nancy Whitmore, cleared her throat nervously. “Oh, Margaret, we were just talking about, um, the spring festival preparations. Nothing you’d find particularly interesting.”

“Hmm,” Margaret hummed, tapping a manicured finger against her lips. “The spring festival, you say?” Her eyes darted from Nancy to Cynthia Sorrell, a younger woman whose wide eyes gave away far more than she could manage to conceal. “And would this ‘spring festival’ have anything to do with George Mellon’s late-night visits to the Widow Hargrave’s porch?”

Cynthia gasped, covering her mouth with her hand, and Nancy’s face drained of color. Margaret gave a dramatic shrug and leaned in conspiratorially. “Oh, forgive me. I must be mistaken. Of course, George’s nocturnal strolls are simply acts of neighborly kindness. Who wouldn’t bring wildflowers to a widow at midnight?”

There was a stammered protest, but Margaret steamrolled through it, her voice rising just enough to catch the attention of a passing vendor.

“But you know,” she continued, addressing the cobblestones instead of the shrinking group, “if someone did have something to say, it would only be fair to make sure the facts are crystal clear before the entire town misinterpreted, don’t you agree?”

The implied threat wrapped in her honeyed tone left no room for argument. The women shifted awkwardly, some casting nervous glances at one another, silently begging someone to steer her attention elsewhere.

Margaret smirked, thoroughly enjoying the tension. It reminded her of how, just yesterday, she had intercepted a letter meant for the postman; innocent little Elsie didn’t even think twice before trusting Margaret to “pass it along.” Oh, the things she now knew.

But then she heard it. Low voices behind her. Male voices, clipped and urgent. Peering over her shoulder, she spotted two men by the clock tower, their faces tight with worry. Their seemingly private exchange pierced the bubble of her petty entertainment.

“Mrs. Melon should know of what her husband is doing in Widow Hargrave’s house,” one of them said, his voice barely above a whisper, though it made Margaret’s sharp ears perk.

“Don’t,” the other man warned. “That will cause trouble.”

Her grin faltered. She straightened in a rare moment of hesitation.

“What was that trouble about?” she murmured to herself, but startlingly, someone answered.

“Probably something you don’t want to stick your nose into,” a man’s voice said from behind her. Startled, she whirled around to face him.

It was Bill Harper, the town’s brash blacksmith and George’s cousin, leaning lazily against the railing. His arms were crossed, his dark eyes scanning her with obvious disdain.

“Careful, Margaret,” he said, his voice low and rough.

Her composure slipped, but only for a fraction of a second. Then the grin returned, albeit sharper. “Oh, Bill,” she purred. “I’m not saying anything. I was merely asking a question out of curiosity,” she waved dismissively. She always backpedaled when she sensed someone challenging her natter. And with that, Bill sauntered away as Margaret stood frozen for a beat longer than she would have cared to admit. Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance. She’d laugh at the timing later, but for now, her pulse quickened—not with purpose, but with something she couldn’t quite place.

The following morning, the town woke to grim whispers that spread like frostbite. Widow Hargrave was found lifeless in her bedroom, her pale arm lying limp against the blood-soaked sheets. A crimson river had dried on her skin, leading down to her left wrist, where a clean, cruel slash bore the deadly mark of finality. Clenched in her right hand was her late husband’s straight razor, glinting faintly in the dim morning light, its steel as cold as the room it occupied.

No one wanted to look too long. No one wanted to admit they’d played a part in etching sorrow so deeply that it sank into her soul. Yet, deep down, guilt rippled through the town like an unavoidable plague.

By mid-afternoon, another shock followed. George’s wife, Lilly, was seen hurriedly packing a single, weathered suitcase. Her face betrayed no tears, only a firm, stoic determination. She scooped up her five-year-old daughter, Mary, and boarded a wagon heading west without another word. Her gaze didn’t wander back, not even as George stumbled out of the family home, calling her name in slurring desperation.

George ended up at the pub, drinking himself into a miserable stupor. Night after night, he sat on the same stool, staring into the bottom of an empty glass as if it held all the answers. But it didn’t. There were no answers, solutions, or redemption for the broken man left behind in the whirlwind of tragedy.

The malicious gossip, once thrill and entertainment, now hung heavy on the town's conscience. Pointed whispers had sown seeds of torment, and what had grown was unbearable. Widow Hargrave was no longer among them, her life severed by loneliness and unbearable shame. A once-happy marriage was shattered, its remnants packed into a single bag and carried away.

Gossip didn’t just ruin people’s reputations. This time, it had ended a life and buried a future in its wake. And now, as heavy clouds gathered above the town square, a weighty, unspoken question lingered in every heart, though no one dared ask it aloud:

Had Margaret’s court won its case, or had it merely destroyed everything it touched?

“It’s not my fault! I wasn’t the one who made the conclusion!” Margaret was in front of her mirror. She was trying desperately to justify what she did. The shadows were quiet this time. They didn’t seem to care about her pep talk. Margaret could feel their presence sliding along the edges of her vision, fleeting, fleeting, then gone. Mandy hadn’t moved; the cat remained at her post like a furry sentinel, her glowing amber eyes burning holes into the hall Margaret didn’t dare explore.

“You’re imagining things,” Margaret spoke aloud now, more for herself than anything else. Mandy remained silent, her gaze unblinking, her tail flicking in short, sharp bursts that left their own kind of punctuation in the room. Margaret turned her back on her feline judge, forcing herself to breathe through the growing tightness in her chest.

But it lingered no matter how hard she tried to banish the creeping unease. It clung to her, the same way the faint echoes of footsteps had clung to the air last night, faint and deliberate, fading upstairs before she could summon the courage to investigate.

Scritch. Scritch. Scriiiiiitch.

Margaret froze in mid-thought, her hand clutching the back of the stool as if it might anchor her. The sound was faint but persistent, scuttling through the air like nails trailing along the wood grain. She dared a glance toward the doorway. Still nothing. But it was coming. From where, she couldn't say.

“Who’s there?” she shouted into the air. Her voice was loud, authoritative, but the question immediately felt absurd. Who’s there? Who could be there? No one. Nothing. Only the ancient bones of her home stretched and creaked as they’d always done. But that logic didn’t stop the hair on her arms from rising or her breath from quickening.

The silence stretched thin, only to snap when the sound returned. A soft, hollow clattering from the kitchen. Margaret tightened her grip on the hairbrush, her knuckles going white. It was so absurdly domestic, the kind of sound you didn’t mind during breakfast or tea. But this wasn’t then. This was now, and her stomach felt like a box of frayed wires sparking against one another.

She gritted her teeth, forcing her slippered feet to carry her forward, one cautious step at a time. Margaret Van Cleef did not cower in her own house. And yet, as she finally peered down the staircase. The kitchen seemed far too still, its edges blurred like an underexposed photograph. Faint light streamed through the window, tangling with the porcelain sheen of an unfamiliar teacup sitting neatly on the table.

Steam curled lazily from its surface, the kind she hated. She didn’t drink tea. Never had, even as a child, when her grandmother would force cucumber sandwiches and Earl Grey between her hands. Those cups were packed away in her china cabinet long ago.

And yet here it was. Gleaming. Patient. Fresh.

She stumbled back from the sight, her breath hitching in loud, uneven bursts. It was real. Too real. Margaret clasped her hand over her mouth to stifle the rising tide of panic and stared, wide-eyed, at the steaming cup. Then came the sound—not from the cup this time—but from the corners of her house, where shadows coiled and whispered, laughing softly at her growing fear.

Margaret stared at the teacup, her breathing shallow as if the air itself resisted her lungs. It sat there, blue and white porcelain glinting delicately in the sunlight, exuding an almost cheerful mockery. The steam drifted upward, slow and deliberate, like it had all the time in the world. Next to it, the lone silver spoon rested on her lace doily, catching the light like a sly wink. It was so domestic, so ordinary. But it wasn’t hers. Her chest tightened. She hadn’t made tea. She hated tea. Yet here it was, utterly out of place, sitting as if it had always belonged there. The weight in her stomach coiled tighter.

She fought to reclaim some composure. “You’re overreacting,” she murmured, her voice a brittle shield. “It’s just a cup.”

But the shadows in her peripheral vision begged to differ. They loomed just out of focus, shifting at the edge of the room like silent spectators, drawing the corners of her kitchen into a murky haze. She spun around, heart racing, hairbrush still clutched in her hand as if it could save her. Nothing. No one. The kitchen remained stubbornly still, bathed in sunlight that somehow felt colder now. And yet, the tension in the air clung to her like wet fabric, heavy and suffocating.

Somewhere deep within the house, the groaning began again, low and guttural, like a creature stirring in its sleep. Margaret swallowed against the lump forming in her throat, forcing herself to turn back to the teacup. Her eyes narrowed at the steam that continued to curl upward, as if it were taunting her for denying its existence. Every step she took closer felt impossible, her legs heavy and reluctant, as though her own body resisted her approach.

Her fingertips brushed the porcelain. Warm. Fresh. Real.

Margaret flinched back, wiping her hand on her robe as though the touch itself burned. "This can’t be happening," she whispered fiercely, her voice quivering as she paced backward, her slippers barely making a sound over the polished hardwood floor. Logic. She needed logic—something to tether her fraying thoughts.

She scrounged for a plausible lie to tell herself. Maybe Cheryl, one of the town’s gossipers, left it here? No, Cheryl hadn’t visited in weeks. Besides, Margaret would have thrown her out before she’d made tea in this house. Another possibility flickered, darker and far less comforting. Could she… have done it and not remembered? No. Impossible. She’d never.

The gentle tank of metal against porcelain shattered her spiraling thoughts. Her head snapped toward the noise. The spoon, still perched against the saucer, had shifted. Just slightly. Margaret’s breath hitched. The shadows around her grew darker, tightening at the edges of the room as if the space itself was closing in.

Her eyes darted toward the counter now, where the knife rack loomed. One of the knives swayed, a faint shift, barely perceptible. It caught the corner of her vision, glinting under the sunlight, sharp and polished. Margaret froze. She hadn’t opened the knife drawer in days. She’d been picking at takeout, barely bothering with utensils at all. Yet here it was, teetering in its block, just slightly out of place.

“You’re losing it,” she muttered, forcing the words out even though they sounded hollow in the suffocating quiet. Her lips trembled with the lie. “You’re tired. It’s all in your head.”

Somehow, the thought wasn’t comforting. The way the silence wrapped around her made her doubt even that. Then, like a cruel punchline to her unraveling logic, Mandy bolted through the dining room, a streak of ginger fur that cut across her vision before disappearing into the hallway. Margaret startled, spinning in time to see the cat skid across the kitchen tile and vanish into the yawning shadows beyond.

“Mandy!” Margaret called out, the sound ragged and breaking against the walls. The house didn’t echo her voice back; it swallowed it whole. Clutching the brush tighter, Margaret backed away from the teacup as if distance could tame the bizarre wrongness in the room.

Her mind screamed for her to run, to flee the house and its stone-cold walls, but her feet were anchors. She couldn’t abandon control. Not here. Not now. She ground her teeth, adrenaline burning bright beneath her skin. "This is my house," she spat at the empty room, daring it to challenge her. Her words carried no conviction. Just a thin, desperate note that echoed back quieter than a breath.

The house groaned again. Louder this time. It wasn’t wood shifting or joints settling. No, this had weight. It thrummed in the walls, vibrating through the air like a voice just low enough to remain unintelligible. Margaret’s breath came sharp and shallow, her hands trembling as she raked her nails against the edge of the counter to ground herself.

Somewhere above her, the sound of footsteps began, one deliberate thud after another. Margaret’s head tilted upward, her neck stiff with dread. The imagined explanation –– that it could have been Mandy –– died the moment logic reminded her that cats didn’t walk like that. The steps were human, too heavy for paws. Too deliberate. They dragged faintly, but deliberately enough to rattle Margaret’s fraying nerves.

She stared up the stairs, dread spreading from her stomach to her chest. “Mandy?” she called again, almost a whimper now. No response. Just the faint shuffle of movement above her and the low, distant groan of the house, stretching deep into its fragile bones.

Her feet betrayed her, inching toward the staircase with dread-fueled momentum. Margaret hated leaving things unresolved, even when they crept at the edges of logic and reality. She reached for the banister without realizing it, gripping it tightly as though it would offer warmth. The wood, cold beneath her fingers, sent a disturbing chill shooting into her already jittery frame.

The first step creaked under her weight. The second groaned louder. And as she climbed the stairs, every breath she took became harder, as the air fought her. By the time she reached her landing, she could hear it again. A sound. A creak of a door. Her bedroom door.

Margaret stared at it from the hallway, slightly ajar, swaying faintly as though breathing on its hinge. The house was alive. She knew it now. It wanted her inside that room or, worse, pulling her toward it. Her slippered feet crept forward despite her shaking resolve. When she reached the door, her trembling fingers stretched for the knob.

The moment she pushed it open, her breath stopped.

Her antique mirror was shattered. Cracks spidered across the glass like veins, their jagged edges casting tiny rainbows into the dim light. Margaret barely registered her own horrified reflection within the fractures. But as her gaze lingered, her chest tightened. Her reflection… it wasn’t right.

It smiled. Wider. Sharper. A smile she hadn’t made.

From within the shadows behind the mirror, something moved. Reaching. Watching. Waiting.

Margaret’s teeth clenched so tightly that her jaw locked. “This isn’t real,” she hissed in something between a plea and a command. Her own voice startled her with its rawness. “It’s stress. Hormonal imbalance. Blood pressure. Anything but this.”

But there it was. On the reflection of the bedroom wall opposite her, her shadow began to stretch on its own accord, elongating limbs into liquid tendrils that licked hungrily at the room's edges in impossible patterns. And the thing in the mirror smiled wider.

No. She would not lose control here.

Margaret scrambled to her feet, adrenaline dragging her through molasses-thick fear that gripped each muscle with deliberate cruelty. She avoided the mirror now, avoided seeing that alien mockery of herself. Cold air swept past her ankles like something large had brushed too close.

Where was Mandy? Where was the useless ball of judgmental fluff when Margaret needed her most? “Mandy?” Her voice was whisper-thin, a pale imitation of the woman who had stormed through life with her chin tilted high.

The house answered her, but not with meows. From the hallway came the unmistakable sound of movement. Slow, dragging steps, each one a wretched sigh of pressure against the wooden floor. They weren’t human steps, though. They were heavier. Uneven. And they were coming toward the bedroom. The fear burned brighter now, flaring into something electric. Her breathing was hard, her pulse hammering wildly against her temples.

The footsteps stopped just outside the door.

Margaret’s knees nearly buckled. Her breath was louder than she wanted it to be. She ran toward the door. Planting her back and digging her nails into the paint of the door behind her, just to ground herself. She could feel the groaning wood pressed against her back, practically hearing a shift in the air beyond it. And in that silence, something pressed down on the other side of the door. It wasn’t a knock, not exactly. It was weighty, insistent, and deliberate.

“Go away!” she shouted suddenly, the words shattering the quiet like broken glass. She instantly regretted it. The room seemed to surge under the strain of her voice, and the cracked mirror shivered slightly, its fractured surface vibrating faintly as if responding to her agitation.

Then came a whisper. A low, rasping, almost familiar noise. Not quite words, but not quite nothing either. It curled around the room, slipping through her ears. It was laughter, faint and guttural, as though the shadows themselves were finding her panic deeply amusing.

Margaret’s resolve snapped like a brittle branch. She bolted for the window. She didn’t care if she shattered the glass further in her haste—anything to get out. The shadows blurred and twisted around her room as though they were alive, the house moaning in protest at its prisoner’s desperation. She clawed at the latch, struggling to unstick it, when her eyes flicked downward to the yard below.

There, in the garden, stood Margaret. Another Margaret. She wore the same tightly coiled bun, the same lipstick, the same tailored top Margaret had so carefully pressed just this morning. And she was staring straight up at the bedroom window.

That Margaret smiled.

The smile spread too wide, impossible to reconcile on any human face. Shadows curved and licked at her feet, rising like tendrils from the soil they had claimed in choking vines. The reflection Margaret tilted her head, almost playfully, as if to say, Why don’t you come and join me?

Margaret staggered away from the window, backing into the deepening dark of the bedroom. Behind her, she heard the soft, deliberate click of the bedroom door unlocking.

Margaret pressed her back against the battered bedroom door, hands trembling, nails digging into the grooved wood as if somehow she could stop the relentless pressure from closing in. Her breath came in sharp, shallow gasps, each one catching and tangling in her throat like cobwebs. Mandy was gone, the house was alive, and the shadows… were more than shadows. She could feel them now, writhing just beyond her sight, waiting for their moment.

But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore. They couldn’t have her. Margaret Van Cleef did not belong to anyone, not the people of Canata, not the whispers in the walls, and certainly not the shadows.

Her lips parted, and a sharp, high-pitched, jagged laugh burst forth. It startled her, echoing off the cracked walls as if it had come from someone else entirely. “Is this how it ends?” she asked no one in particular, her voice balancing precariously between hysteria and triumph. “Margaret Van Cleef… cornered in her own home? Ridiculous. Absurd!”

Her laugh grew louder, shriller, cutting through the thick silence until it became something raw and guttural, echoing back like the cries of a trapped animal. Her shadow stretched long across the wall, flickering and merging with the darkened corners, yet her wild eyes were fixed on the mirror.

Then came the crash. The deafening sound reverberated through the room as the antique monstrosity hit the floor, its once-pristine surface reduced to a chaotic scatter of gleaming shards. The fractured glass caught the dim light in cruel angles, sending glints of cold brilliance dancing across the walls like ghostly specters.

She stared at the ruins, her breath caught somewhere between her chest and her throat. Her reflection was everywhere, scattered into a hundred broken fragments. Each jagged piece framed a piece of her face, twisted and grotesque. Eyes wide as saucers stared back from one shard, while another held a gaping grin stretched impossibly far. Still, others froze her in mid-sneer, mid-gasp, each with a sinister distortion that was undeniably hers and yet... not.

They shouldn’t have moved. She was sure of that. She stood motionless, her hands trembling at her sides, but the warped reflections in the glass shifted. Their lips curled wider, teeth glinting starkly white between the cracks. They grinned when she didn’t. Their eyes followed her even as hers remained rooted in terror.

And then came the whispers.

Her cracked, distorted reflections stared back at her, hundreds of them now, twisted and warped, yet each one undeniably her. They grinned at her through the cracks, wide and toothy. They moved when she didn’t. And they whispered.

No one shines brighter than you.

Her lips twitched. It was true, wasn’t it? She was radiant, eternal, untouchable. Even as her body betrayed her step by step, as the years carved lines into her once-perfect skin, she had fought back. She had won. The house, the shadows, whatever game they were playing, they didn’t understand who they were dealing with. Margaret Van Cleef was not some weak, mewling little creature to be tormented and played with. She was Margaret Van Cleef. They couldn’t take her.

But they weren’t trying to take her. No, that wasn’t right. They were simply showing her what had been true all along.

“Ah,” she murmured, eyes narrowing as the whispers grew louder, overlapping until her skull throbbed. “I see now. I get it. You’re part of me. Aren’t you?”

The shadows pulsed in response, crawling up the walls and swallowing the last remnants of light. The house groaned again, but to Margaret, the sound was almost… affectionate. Like a parent calming a frightened child.

“Yes,” she whispered, lowering herself to her knees, her attention still riveted to the shattered mirror. The reflections were clearer now, each one sharper than the last. They didn’t frighten her anymore. Why should they? They were her, every fractured piece, every sliver of herself, finally laid bare. “You’ve been here all along, haven’t you? Watching. Waiting.”

It felt so obvious now. The whispers in the hallways, the shadows in the corners of her eyes, even the little threats like knives and teacups out of place. They hadn’t been taunting her. They’d been trying to reach her, to pull her into the truth she had worked so hard to avoid. They hadn’t wanted to harm her. They’d tried to show her.

“How foolish I’ve been,” she said, stroking the mirror frame like a beloved pet. She caught her reflection’s eye, the largest one, staring back at her with renewed intensity. Its smile softened, the malice melting into something almost serene. You were always the brightest star.

“Yes,” the other Margaret murmured, smiling back.

Margaret shut her eyes. She doesn’t want to see her other self smiling at her. Her tears were falling freely now, dripping onto the floor, mingling with the glass shards. “I should have known. I should have seen it. This house… these shadows…”

She rose to her feet like a marionette, her movements slow and deliberate. Her reflection moved with her this time, perfectly synchronized, the jagged cracks in the glass seeming to fuse together. She tilted her head, appraising herself as though for the first time. “You weren’t trying to help me.” Her voice was quiet now, reverent. “You were trying to destroy me!”

Her knees buckled slightly, and she stumbled back, the tail of her dress catching on one of the larger shards. The grinning reflections tilted in time with her faltering steps, their movements mocking her jerky escape. Each grin seemed to widen as the whispers swelled, a symphony of venomous, half-formed words echoing in her ears and rattling in her bones.

“Stop…” she croaked, her voice barely audible even to herself. But they only laughed louder, malevolent and sharp, voices layered in tones both menacing and oddly familiar.

Her own voice among them.

Without hesitation, she picked a jagged shard of glass from the floor. It gleamed in her hand, its edges sharp enough to bite into her skin. Margaret turned it over, studying the way her reflection rippled on its surface. Her face felt distant now, almost unfamiliar, but the woman in the glass? Oh, she knew her intimately. This was who she was meant to be.

The whispers surged, filling her ears until they became a tidal sound wave. She smiled through it, gripping the shard tighter. “I’m ready,” she said to the darkness. “I’m ready to be whole again.”

The shadows rushed forward, enveloping her in a cold, suffocating hug. The house groaned in satisfaction as Margaret collapsed to her knees again, laughing through the chaos, her voice growing fainter and fainter until it was swallowed entirely. The shard slipped from her hand, clattering onto the floor.

“You will never be alone, Margaret. I am always with you, “ said the other Margaret.

She screamed at her, but her scream never made it out of her throat.

When Cheryl popped by the next day to check on Margaret, the house was still and silent. The blinds were drawn, and the door locked tight. Cheryl lingered on the porch for a few moments, muttering something about Margaret being too self-absorbed to open the door.

Cheryl was annoyed but curious. Margaret had missed the town meeting, and Cheryl couldn’t stand loose ends. If her flaky neighbor wanted nothing to do with the community, fine, but RSVP, for heaven’s sake.

She knocked, then knocked again, but no one came to the door. Cheryl peeked through the window. The house appeared untouched, the blinds angled just so, and the furniture was set perfectly in place. Cheryl couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong, but after a few more knocks and an obligatory snoop around the porch, she dismissed it with a shrug. “People came and went in their lives. Margaret was probably off somewhere preening for an audience that would gladly humor her, “ she murmured and left the house.

Behind the curtains, the reflections in the shattered mirror still moved. Only now, they moved alone. Margaret’s face grinned brilliantly from every shard, her laughter frozen in each piece, echoing faintly beneath the suffocating quiet of her empty house.

---

Justine Castellon is a brand strategist with an innate ability to weave compelling narratives. She seamlessly blends her professional insight with her passion for literature. She writes about her journey as a writer in between poetry and short stories. She is the author of three novels –– Four Seasons, The Last Snowfall, and Gnight Sara / 'Night Heck.