The Mirror's Whisper

Mia found the antique vanity mirror at a garage sale, its gilded frame chipped, glass clouded. The seller warned, “It shows what’s meant to be,” but she hung it in her bedroom, drawn to the faint etchings of ravens along its edge. That night, her reflection lingered when she turned away.
She leaned closer; the glass cleared, revealing her face—but with a slit throat, blood dripping onto her shirt. Mia staggered back, heart racing. When she glanced again, the reflection smiled, its lips stretching wider than humanly possible. “You can’t run,” a voice hissed, not from the room, but through the glass.
The mirror trembled. Her reflection pressed a hand to the glass, leaving a red stain that seeped through, burning her skin. Mia tried to cover it, but the mirror’s surface rippled, pulling her wrist forward. “Join me,” the reflection mouthed, its eyes turning black.
By morning, the mirror stood empty. Mia’s bedroom door was locked, and in the hallway mirror, a figure with her face grinned, tracing the raven etchings—now carved into its own throat.