Chapter 2: Something Left Behind
Clara didn't scream this time.
She couldn't.
The air felt thick in her lungs, her body frozen beneath the covers. She stared at the figure standing by her desk—its outline sharp, black as tar, rippling faintly at the edges like heat on pavement.
Her shadow.
But not hers anymore.
It mimicked her shape, her height, her gestures. But it wasn't attached to her. It stood—freestanding, upright, with no light source to justify it. And it was watching her. Not moving. Just waiting.
Clara finally found her voice. "What are you?"
The thing tilted its head. Her voice echoed back softly from the walls, but not from the shadow. It said nothing.
Instead, it raised one hand.
And pointed.
Clara followed its gesture, heart hammering.
It was pointing at the closet mirror.
"No," she whispered. "No way."
The mirror was covered. She'd thrown a sheet over it days ago, ever since the reflections started showing things she didn't do—smiles that lingered too long, pupils that shrank to pinpricks, lips that mouthed words she hadn't said.
The shadow lowered its hand.
Then it walked to the mirror.
Its steps made no sound.
Clara barely dared to breathe.
When the shadow reached the mirror, it stopped.
Then—without touching the cloth—it stepped forward.
Into the glass.
The sheet fluttered slightly, as if tugged by wind.
The mirror stood still.
Clara sat up, gasping, her heart thudding like thunder.
The room was empty.
Her shadow was gone.
In the morning, Clara didn't feel rested. She felt emptied.
She moved slowly, as if underwater. Colors looked dull. Sounds came muffled. She reached for her coffee and noticed something else.
Her shadow was back.
Flat against the kitchen floor.
It moved when she did.
Too perfectly.
As though… performing.
She walked across the room quickly, trying to catch it slipping.
It didn't.
It was exact.
Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that something inside it had changed. It didn't feel like her anymore.
It felt like something wearing her.
Harper met her for lunch at a quiet café two blocks from campus. Clara didn't waste time. She told her everything—the visitation, the mirror, the vanishing.
Harper's face paled.
"That's not just separation," she whispered. "That's a crossing."
Clara blinked. "A what?"
"In older texts, it's called a 'Shadow Threshold.' It's when a shadow passes from your world into another—usually through glass. If yours stepped into the mirror… it didn't just move. It crossed over."
Clara leaned in, voice hushed. "What does that mean for me?"
Harper looked grim. "It means something's on the other side now. And worse—something might want to come back through."
Clara's hand tightened around her cup.
"Then we stop it."
They returned to Clara's apartment that evening.
The mirror still stood in the corner, draped in gray.
Harper walked slowly around it, examining the air.
"Feel that?" she asked.
Clara nodded. The temperature had dropped several degrees.
Harper pulled a black candle and a bundle of herbs from her bag.
"This is a binding," she explained. "It won't destroy anything. But it should close the passage for a while."
Clara stood back as Harper lit the candle and began to chant softly, walking in a circle around the mirror, drawing faint symbols with the smoke.
The flame hissed.
The mirror trembled.
And then—
It spoke.
Not in words.
In sound.
A low moan, like wind through a tunnel, or someone sobbing beneath water.
Clara's knees went weak.
Harper's voice faltered. "Something's still in there."
The mirror pulsed once.
Then went still.
The candle died.
Smoke curled upward like a claw.
Harper dropped the herb bundle and backed away. "That's not normal."
Clara nodded numbly. "Yeah. I figured."
That night, Clara didn't sleep in her bedroom.
She pulled a blanket onto the couch, turned on every light, and waited.
Midnight passed.
Then 1 AM.
Then 2.
At 2:37, the lights flickered.
The television turned on by itself—just static.
Clara sat upright.
The air was cold again.
A shadow moved across the static screen.
But there was nothing behind her.
She stood, slowly, heart pounding.
The TV crackled louder.
And then, as she stared into the noise, she saw it.
Not in the reflection.
In the screen.
Her shadow.
Smiling.
It lifted a hand.
And something long and black crawled out from the bottom edge of the TV—sliding across the rug like spilled ink.
Clara screamed.
The lights snapped off.
Every bulb in the apartment popped in sequence.
Clara stumbled backwards, tripping over her blanket, heart racing.
The crawling shadow pooled in front of her—taller now, rising up, forming shoulders, a neck, a head.
No face.
Only the faint outline of her.
Clara fumbled for the front door, yanked it open—
Only to find Harper there, panting, soaked from the rain.
"I felt it," Harper gasped. "I felt it break through."
They turned together.
The figure was gone.
Just a wet patch on the carpet.
But Clara's shadow had returned.
And this time, it didn't move at all.
To be continued…