text: Evelyn Harper stood in the middle of her new, old house, hands on her hips, surveying the chaos around her. Dust motes danced in the rays of the late afternoon sun that filtered through the grimy windows of Hawthorne House, a crumbling brick 150-year-old Tudor-style home she saved from demolition a month ago. Like her, it had seen better days--weathered by time and neglect but still standing, resilient. The house was a reflection of her current state: aged, weathered, but not without hope for restoration. Recently divorced after 25 years of marriage, Evelyn was grappling with the aftermath of her husband leaving her for a younger woman. The parallel was painfully clear--both she and the house had been abandoned, deemed outdated, and past their prime. She rolled up her sleeves and decided to take on the renovation herself, not just to revive the house but to reclaim her own life. Stripping it down to the studs felt symbolic, a way to lay bare her soul and rebuild from scratch. With a hammer in hand, she began to shatter holes in the old, stucco walls in the living room, releasing decades of rot and forgotten memories. As the material broke away in brittle, yellowed chunks, Evelyn’s hammer struck something solid and unexpected behind the wall. She paused, curiously prying at the wallboard until a small, hidden compartment was revealed. Inside, wrapped in a tattered cloth, lay a manuscript. She carefully unwrapped it, revealing a sheaf of aged papers handwritten in an elegant script. The title, scrawled across the top page, simply read: "The Mirror." Intrigued, Evelyn settled into an old armchair with the manuscript, the room silent except for the occasional creak of the house settling around her. The story began innocently enough, describing the life of a woman named Constance. But as Evelyn read on, a chill ran down her spine. Constance's life mirrored her own in uncanny detail--her struggles, her heartbreak, her resilience. The more she read, the more she felt an eerie connection to the character. Constance, as it turned out, had lived in the house nearly a century ago. Her husband had left her for another woman, leaving her destitute and alone. Desperate to make a new life for herself, Constance moved into the old abandoned house, hoping to restore some semblance of it and herself. The structure had seen better days and was dilapidated even then, according to the narrative. Its very origins seemed to be shrouded in mystery. Evelyn paused her reading to retrieve and inspect the closing documents for the house. Inside the folder her realtor provided was a yellowed document--the house’s deed, revealing that it had stood for over 150 years. The property had passed through many hands since its beginnings, each owner seemingly drawn to it during times of personal crisis. There was one peculiar clause in every transaction: the mirror above the mantle must remain. Every owner had agreed to keep it there, including Evelyn. She found herself staring at the ornate fixture, sitting on the oak mantle above the woodburning fireplace, its gilded frame tarnished but still striking. It was as if the mirror held the secrets of every soul who had ever lived there. What stories had it witnessed? What pain and suffering had it absorbed and reflected back at its occupants? Determined to uncover more, Evelyn resumed her renovation work, now with a heightened sense of purpose. She found herself frequently drawn back to the manuscript after a long day of demolition, piecing together Constance’s tragic story. Constance’s journey mirrored her own too closely to be a mere coincidence. As she tore down more walls, Evelyn discovered hidden compartments and items left behind by previous tenants. An old pocket watch, a child’s toy, a faded photograph--each relic told a story, adding layers to the house’s history. It was as if the place was a living entity, its walls imbued with the memories of those who had once called it home. The manuscript described how Constance had discovered similar items, reminders of previous tenants, during her renovation. Each discovery brought her closer to understanding that there was a dark presence haunting the house. Constance believed the restless soul of the house’s original owner, a woman named Eliza, who suffered a great betrayal and loss, was attached to the house somehow, perhaps through the mirror on the mantle. Evelyn felt a growing unease, but she couldn’t stop reading. The manuscript had a strange, almost hypnotic pull. The story of Constance’s confrontation with the spirit was both terrifying and compelling. The more she read, the more she felt the boundaries between her life and Constance’s blur. One evening, as Evelyn was reading, the lights flickered, and a cold draft brushed past her, raising goosebumps on her skin. She glanced around the dimly lit room, her breath floating on the air as if it were winter, yet it was the middle of summer. Was it her imagination, or did she hear whispers? Determined to shake off the fear, Evelyn continued reading on the off hours of her work. This manuscript was simply the ramblings of a lonely old crone, yet it was compelling. Constance recounted experiences similar to Evelyn’s as they practically mirrored each other’s efforts in turning this home into something worth celebrating versus another forgotten relic. Evelyn reached the story’s last pages just as she brought down the final wall and began to plan for the house’s upgrades in plumbing and electricity. In the story, as Constance also approached her renovation’s turning point, she was faced with another setback. One of the men she had hired to help with some of the more technical work had run off with the money she had fronted him, along with some of her most valued possessions she had locked in a trunk in the basement. In her anger, Constance picked up a hammer and threw it at the mirror on the mantle. To her shock and horror, the hammer bounced off the frame and hit her right between the eyes. She dropped to the floor in a daze. As she lay there, certain death had finally come for her, Constance swore the mirror followed, hovering over her body as if someone were holding it aloft. Unable to look away, she was forced to confront her deepest fears and face the parts of herself she had hidden away. Paralyzed, either by terror or her wound, she watched as it revealed her darkest secrets and most painful memories. She saw herself as a young woman, full of hope and dreams, then as a heartbroken wife, and finally as a lonely, abandoned soul. The mirror reflected her insecurities, failures, and the pain she had tried to bury. It showed her the moments she had been too afraid to face, the decisions she regretted, and the love she had lost. Constance had to confront each of these reflections, acknowledging the pain and guilt she carried. The mirror demanded that she accept her past and the choices that led her to her current state. It was a brutal, emotional battle, each image a blow to her already fragile spirit. But as she faced these impressions, she began to understand that the only way to free herself--and the house--was to let go of her despair. Evelyn glanced at the mirror and thought of her despair and unresolved pain. Did the house, like her, need to be cleansed of its past to embrace a new future? With trembling hands, she turned the page and read the final words Constance wrote. As her eyes flew over the words, the house seemed to shudder. The air grew thick, and the whispers she'd heard over the weeks of reading and demo turned into a cacophony of voices. Evelyn felt a surge of energy, a powerful force pushing against her. She held the pages firm, rereading the final verse when the lights blinked out. A popping sound and the shattering of fine glass pulled her from her trance. Then, complete and utter darkness like none she'd ever experienced. “It appears to have been some kind of power surge. Not surprising in a house of this age. Although, my guys swore they had disconnected the main circuit from the grid outside before they left. In my twenty years as a general contractor, I’ve never seen every light in the house shatter at the same time,” Dave, the project manager, explained to Evelyn the next day. She swallowed a lump in her throat and nodded. “I was using battery-operated LED lights throughout the house. It doesn’t make any sense. Literally, nothing was turned on.” “You’re lucky it didn’t start a fire!” “Yes,” she whispered, looking at the mirror on the mantle, then down at the wrapped pages she held against her chest. “Is it fixable?” “My guys are double-checking everything right now before they bring in the new meter and wiring. We’ll have this place lit up like a Christmas tree before you know it.” The thought sent a profound sense of peace through Evelyn. With the house filled with light and warmth, it would no longer feel neglected or abandoned. A light breeze blew through the open front door, rustling her hair. It was as though the end of Constance’s story had released some terrible blight from the very fibers of the house. Evelyn smiled, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. The house, like her, had been given a second chance. She knew there was still much work to be done, but for the first time in a long while, she felt hopeful. The past, with all its pain and heartache, had been exorcised, leaving room for new beginnings. As she looked into the mirror above the mantle once more, she saw not a reflection of despair but of a woman and a home reborn, ready to face whatever the future held.