On a night when the moon hid behind thick clouds, Sarah sat alone in her candle-lit room. The wind pressed against the windows, coaxing the flames to dance, shadows stretching across every wall, creeping into corners where unknown fears lurked. She was sixteen and new to this old house, her parents having moved after her father's promotion. The locals spoke little to outsiders—they only warned not to wander after midnight, and never to speak to her own reflection.

Sarah was clever, restless, and believed none of it. She prided herself on logic, on being older now than childish superstitions could touch. So when her best friend Kayla dared her over text to try “the mirror legend”, Sarah laughed. In every haunted tale the kids at school swapped, mirrors sat as the borderlands between worlds; supposedly, if you looked into one at midnight and whispered, "Who is there?", something answered back.

The clock read 11:45 PM. Sarah’s parents slept in the room across the hall, oblivious. Her room was safe, she thought—her books stacked, her photos on the dresser, and a single, antique mirror found in the attic now resting against the wall. Lightning flickered as another storm rolled in, thunder rumbling like a warning. She lit a second candle, watching the flickering light double as it reflected in the glass.

Ten minutes passed. Sarah’s heart sped; she told herself she was bored, not nervous. The candle’s glow spilled gold onto the mirror. The quiet deepened until she felt she could almost hear another breath, except she knew she was alone. Seconds ticked by. At last, the clock struck twelve—a low, mournful chime echoing through the hall.

Sarah stood before the mirror. Her own face stared back, pale and earnest, eyes too wide. She hesitated, then whispered, “Who is there?” The silence pressed against her ears, almost deafening. She waited, her own breathing louder, her reflection flickering as the flame stuttered.

Then, impossibly, the mirror darkened as the candle wavered. Sarah’s reflection blinked—but she hadn’t. The air grew colder. Suddenly, she heard it: a soft, slithering voice, low as the wind—“Behind you...”

Sarah jerked around, expecting a prank, Kayla sneaking in, her parents catching her out. But there was nothing there. Just her room, just shadows, just the storm. But the air felt different—a chill that bit through her pajamas, a heaviness, almost as if someone else was holding their breath, waiting.

Swallowing her fear, Sarah turned back to the mirror. For a split second, she saw a second figure next to her reflection—a shadow, tall and thin, with a smile that gleamed too white, too wide. Before she could truly see, lightning flashed outside and the entire house shuddered. The shadow vanished, her own reflection returned, but Sarah was not alone in the feeling that something had crossed over.

She scrambled back onto her bed, hastily blowing out the candles, but the room wouldn’t warm, the shadows wouldn’t fade. She tried to reason. It was late, her mind played tricks, the legends were just stories. But as she lay, sleepless, her eyes drifted back to the mirror once, twice, then every few minutes. Sometimes, she thought she saw movement—a flicker beside her own reflection, a pair of eyes gleaming low.

The next day, Sarah tried to forget. She told Kayla everything, laughing it off, but her friend grew quiet, confessed that she herself had tried the mirror game once and stopped when her own reflection seemed to mouth words she couldn't hear. Kayla begged her not to play again.

But curiosity nagged at Sarah. She researched mirror legends—the Russian myth of the vampire’s reflection, the Japanese tale of the “ghost behind glass”, the old English rhyme, "Ask your truth at midnight’s door/And lose what’s yours for evermore." She barely noticed that the house grew colder as dusk came, and that her own reflection seemed increasingly distant, slow to mimic her movements.

On the third night, unable to help herself, she tried again. The clock ticked toward midnight. This time, she set up her phone to record, lit three candles, and stared into the mirror. Her reflection blurred and twisted as the flame flickered. Fighting panic, she whispered again, “Who is there?”

Nothing—until the reflection’s lips curled into a cruel smile and whispered, perfectly timed, perfectly echoed: “You invited me in.”

Just then, Sarah heard footsteps in the hallway. She spun, heart pounding. Her mother called out, voice muffled. “Sarah, are you all right?”

“Yeah, just a bad dream!” Sarah lied, covering the mirror with a sweater. She left the candles to burn out, crawled into bed, and tried not to cry.

Over the next week, things got worse. Sarah’s family felt the house grow colder. Shadows fell at strange hours. Sarah herself felt watched, especially at night. Once, in the bath, she saw a pale face reflected behind her own in the bathroom mirror. Another time, while brushing teeth, a phantom hand mimicked hers before vanishing.

Convinced she might be losing her mind, Sarah decided to stay awake all night. At midnight, she sat staring into the antique mirror. Lightning flashed, thunder roared, and she saw not her own reflection, but the shadowy figure, smiling.

“What do you want?” she whispered.

The reflection did not move its lips but spoke clearly in Sarah's head: “To remember. To return. You opened the door.”

Desperate, Sarah researched how to undo old legends. She found advice: break the mirror, use salt, burn sage, pray, leave the house. She tried everything. She sprinkled salt around the mirror, burned sage until the smoke stung her eyes, but each midnight her reflection grew stranger, and the shadow behind grew clearer.

The final night, Sarah wrote a note and hid it behind the mirror: “If you see this, never play the mirror game.” Then, with trembling hands, she lifted the mirror and smashed it on the floor. For a moment, it sounded like screaming—shards danced over her carpet, and the shadow vanished.

The house grew warmer. Shadows faded. Sarah slept for the first time in a week. But sometimes, just at the edge of sleep, she thought she could hear a voice whispering from nowhere, begging to be let in. She never kept an uncovered mirror in her room again.

Years later, Sarah found her old phone in storage. On it, a midnight video: the flickering candles, her own pale face, and for a split second, behind her, a second smiling silhouette, eyes gleaming red. She deleted it.

The legend of Black Willow Lane lived on—but Sarah always warned new friends: never ask your mirror, “Who is there?” unless you are prepared for someone to answer.

Daniel had never liked sleeping with his window open. The house was old; the woods pressed in close, and at night the air seemed full of secrets. But his parents insisted—fresh nights were good for him, and Daniel tried to believe it. That was before the first visitor. On the first night of autumn, Daniel woke to faint footsteps—barely perceptible, like the hush of leaves. He thought it was the wind or some animal. But the steps returned the next night. Always at midnight, slow, deliberate, circling the house. Daniel pressed his ear to the window. Sometimes he thought he caught a whisper, a laugh, or a shiver across the glass. He asked his parents if they'd heard anything. They said Daniel was imagining things or maybe the wind made odd noises in houses like this. After all, they'd moved to the countryside for peace, not haunting. Daniel placed a chair against his window, determined to catch the culprit. At midnight, the footsteps came again. This time, as Daniel watched, a pale face appeared at the window. The features were indistinct, eyes hollow, mouth unnaturally stretched. Daniel gasped but couldn’t move. The face melted into darkness before he could shout. That night began a cycle. Every midnight, Daniel heard whispering—words he couldn't make out and the scrape of nails against his window. Sometimes, the window fogged from the outside, even though it was dry weather. Daniel saw shapes swirling in the mist—faces, fingers, a grin that stretched wider every night. Daniel tried to ignore it: music in his ears, a book in his hand, but the house changed with each visit. Paint peeled in odd places, shadows clung in corners, and Daniel felt watched. Sleep deserted him. His parents noticed his fatigue, his reluctance to eat, and his refusal to be alone after dark. Desperate, Daniel placed salt at the window—something he heard from local superstition. That night, the visitor pressed closer than ever, its breath fogging the window, fingers tracing runes Daniel could barely remember in the morning. The sounds escalated. Daniel would jolt awake to tapping, rapping, then the slow, insistent scrape of nails. He never saw a full form, just fragments—a hand here, a mouth there, eyes gleaming red. The whispers grew clear: “Let me in. Please.” Daniel finally confided in his best friend, Rosa. She agreed to spend the night. At midnight, both children heard the footsteps, the whispering, the scraping. Rosa swore she saw a figure crouched outside the window, mouth open wider and wider until it split into shadow. Daniel’s parents tried window locks, heavy curtains, even sleeping in Daniel’s room. One night, when his father stayed with him, he woke to see the visitor’s face pressed to the glass, eyes fixed, unblinking. The glass frosted instantly, with only the shape of lips pressed into it—smiling. His father never spoke of what he saw. Winter came. Now the visitor entered dreams. Daniel found himself walking through fogged woods, following faded footprints, hearing his name called by a voice he both feared and craved. The house began to echo with strange laughter at midnight, doors rattling, glass sweating condensation no matter the weather. Eventually, Daniel confronted the visitor. He wrote a note—“Who are you and what do you want?”—and pressed it to the glass. That night, at midnight, a hand appeared, pale and wet. In the dew, words traced: “Lost. Longing. Listen.” Before Daniel could ask more, the visitor vanished. Daniel learned the visitor was a soul, trapped between worlds. Each night, it sought someone new to join its wandering. The more Daniel listened, the more it tried to enter—not the house, but his mind, his memories, his fears. On the last night before spring, Daniel made a decision. He spoke aloud, “You cannot have me. You are not mine to carry.” The visitor seemed to recoil, the fog peeled from the glass, and Daniel felt warmth for the first time in months. The midnight sounds lessened and finally faded. Daniel’s parents relaxed; Rosa slept over without fear. But in Daniel’s heart, a tiny echo remained: the memory of a face in the window, the craving to ask, just once, “What are you really?” Daniel never opened his window after midnight again, and no matter what, he never answered a whisper calling his name from the glass.

Ever since she was little, Mia feared what lurked beneath her bed. Though her parents laughed it off and said there was nothing in the darkness, Mia always noticed that the shadows beneath crept and changed with each passing night. On stormy evenings, the thunder rumbled and lightning struck, illuminating the room for split seconds, only to plunge it back into deeper darkness. The rain would tap at her windows as the wind swirled, and she would pull her feet up tight, afraid of the shadows reaching up to grab her. One evening, the storm was particularly fierce. The power failed, plunging the house into utter black. Flickers of candlelight danced on the walls. Mia lay awake, heart pounding, eyes darting between the closet and the gap beneath her bed. Suddenly, she heard shuffling—a faint scraping—coming from beneath her mattress. Too scared to call for her parents, she leaned over, clutching her flashlight, and peered down. Two eyes gleamed back at her, too low and wide apart to belong to any pet. Mia’s scream brought her parents running. They flicked the lights on, checked everywhere—under the bed, in the closet, the hallway. “Nothing here, darling,” her mother said, but Mia saw the eyes, felt the icy air against her ankles. Her father chalked it up to imagination, said storms could make noises seem like footsteps. That night, Mia tossed and turned, haunted by the encounter. Every time she drifted towards sleep, she felt cold fingers brush her ankle. She kept her feet curled beneath her, refusing to let them dangle. As days passed, strange things began to happen. Odd scratches appeared on the floor beneath her bed—thin, long markings that multiplied each morning. Toys vanished, then reappeared in unexpected places. The shadows beneath seemed thicker, more alive. Determined to uncover the truth, Mia set up her phone to record overnight, pointing the camera beneath her bed. She watched the video the next morning, heart racing: first nothing, then at 2:23 AM, a barely perceptible movement, as darkness crept outward and a shape—thin, lanky, with gleaming eyes—emerged and hovered near her feet before vanishing into shadow. Mia’s parents finally believed her after watching the footage, but local experts, old neighbors, and even a priest found no explanation. Mia refused to sleep in her room, and her parents moved her bed away from the wall and put nightlights everywhere. One evening, as Mia tried to sleep in the guest room, she felt the cold once again. The blankets tugged, and she heard the shuffling under the mattress. In terror, she jumped up, but nothing was there. Days later, she discovered the guest room’s floor now bore fresh scratches. At last, Mia’s grandmother arrived, bringing a pouch of salt and sage. She sprinkled it under the bed and whispered ancient prayers. The air grew warm, and the shadows retreated. For the first time, Mia slept without fear, but she never let her feet dangle off the bed again. Years later, Mia would sometimes hear stories of children vanishing, of still nights when shadows grew long, whispering beneath the mattress. But she always remembered to keep her feet tucked in tight and never, ever look beneath her bed on a stormy night.

Leah had just moved into the old house with her parents. The place loomed with secrets; faded wallpaper curled in every room, dust motes twirled in the sunlight, and the attic stairs groaned with every step. But what unnerved Leah most were the noises after sunset—a soft, persistent crying that seemed to echo from the attic above her room. At first, Leah thought it was her imagination. But every night, just after her parents turned off the lights, the sound began. It was not the wind. It wasn't the house settling. It was the unmistakable, mournful cry of a child. Sometimes it grew choked, sometimes it faded to a whisper, but it was always there. Leah asked her parents. "Just the pipes," her father said. "Attics do that," her mother added reassuringly. But Leah didn't believe them. She decided to investigate. Armed with a flashlight and trembling courage, Leah crept up the attic stairs the next night as the crying started. Shadows pressed against the sloping ceiling. At the far end of the attic, beneath cobwebs and dust, she found an old, battered trunk, shaking as if something were trapped inside. Leah hesitated, her hand on the latch. The cries grew louder, pleading, desperate. She took a deep breath and opened the trunk—empty. The crying stopped instantly. The attic fell silent. Leah’s heart raced; a chill clung to her skin. After that night, Leah hoped it was over. But the next morning, she found a single, icy handprint on her attic window, as if someone had pressed their palm against the glass from outside. Every morning, a new handprint appeared. Strangely, her dreams became troubled. She saw fleeting visions—the trunk, a pale child with wide eyes, cold wind swirling around her. The face always looked at Leah, beckoning, pleading silently for help. Leah began searching for clues in the house. Hidden in the attic’s rafters, she found an old diary. The entries spoke of a child lost in the house, who cried every night and vanished one morning. The last entry read: “They’re coming—the darkness in the trunk waits for me. If you hear me, do not open.” Leah wondered if her action had freed the child’s spirit or unleashed something darker. She sprinkled salt around the attic, hoping local traditions would help. But each handprint appeared with a message scrawled beneath: “Help me.” Leah sat near the trunk one evening, whispering comfort. The air grew chilly, and for the first time, she felt a small hand in hers, icy cold yet strangely comforting. The crying faded to a sigh, then was gone. As seasons passed, the handprints grew faint. Leah sometimes felt watched, sometimes heard soft footsteps above her room. But the house never felt truly cold again. Years later, Leah would return to the house to find the attic peaceful, the trunk untouched, and the windows free of handprints. But sometimes, when the wind was just right, she could hear a child’s laugh echo through the rafters—a sign, perhaps, that some guests never truly leave but simply find peace with the living.

Tom had always taken the shortcut through the old cemetery on foggy evenings. It saved him time and, until recently, he found the eerie quiet strangely comforting. But one night, as mist curled through the gravestones, Tom felt uneasy. Footsteps echoed behind him—slow at first, then quickening to match his pace. Tom tried to convince himself it was the echo of his own boots. But each time he stopped, the footsteps continued, fading only when he stood perfectly still. The fog grew thicker, swallowing the crypts and statues. The air chilled, and Tom felt he was being watched. He quickened his pace, but the footsteps grew louder. Heart pounding, Tom turned and saw spectral shapes emerging from the mist—figures with hollow faces, mouths twisted in silent screams, eyes glowing red. Terror seized him. He ran, stumbling between crumbling stones. The figures closed in, their hands reaching, voices whispering lost words that Tom could not understand. The cemetery gates loomed ahead; Tom flung himself through, breathless, the shapes fading away. At home, Tom locked every door and window. But at night, he couldn’t shake the lingering sense of being watched. Sometimes he would hear footsteps echoing outside his window, feel shivers run up his spine as if the fog itself tried to seep into his dreams. Weeks passed. Tom tried to avoid the cemetery, but one evening, he was forced by circumstance to take the path again. This time, the fog curled in even thicker, and the footsteps started immediately. The air pressed against him, heavy with voices—"Stay with us," they whispered, "You belong here now." Desperate for answers, Tom researched local legends. He learned that on foggy nights, the dead sought lost company among the living, hoping to claim souls who wandered too long among the stones. The legend warned: never run, never speak, never look the dead in the eye. The next time Tom felt the footsteps, he stopped, squared his shoulders, and said, "I’m only passing through. I mean no harm." The footsteps stilled, and for a second, the mist parted, revealing a path so clear Tom walked home without incident. Yet even in safety, Tom sometimes saw pale shapes looking through the fog. Some nights, they gathered beneath his window as he slept, watching, waiting. He never took the cemetery shortcut again. Years later, Tom told his tale to new arrivals in town, warning them of the footsteps in the fog. Even now, when the mist is thick, locals say you can hear Tom’s voice—either guiding others home or echoing among the crypts with those who were not so lucky to escape.