I watch with growing horror as the images in the mirrors begin to move—slowly at first, like an old projector sputtering to life. The flickering light casts shadows that crawl across the stone walls. The air thickens, heavy with the scent of damp stone and something sweetly metallic, like rusted iron and wilted roses.
The mirrors come alive with scenes I know too well. Moments of pain. Of fear. Of ache.
In one mirror, I’m six years old, curled up in a dark closet. The door is cracked, and outside, voices are shouting—sharp, slurred, angry. My small hands tremble around a stuffed bear, its fur matted with tears. I’m trying not to cry. Trying not to be heard. The closet smells of dust and old shoes. I remember that night. I remember the way the air felt—tight, stale, suffocating. It was only one of many, but this one etched itself into me.
Another mirror shows me at eighteen. Dressed in black. A spring morning, but the sky is gray. I watch as they lower my father’s coffin into the ground. I’m alone. No one stands beside me. No one touches me. My grief is silent, like a scream swallowed whole. The wind rustles the trees, but I hear nothing. Just the thud of earth on wood.
In another, I’m twenty-five. Sitting on the edge of my bed in my apartment. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of my phone. A message is on the screen—a confession of love, a chance for happiness. I watch myself hesitate. My thumb hovers. Then I delete it. The screen goes dark. The pang of regret hits me like a punch to the gut. My face burns with shame. I remember the silence afterward. The way the air felt too still.
Then I see myself at the party. Standing alone. Watching her. Watching everyone else live. My face is pale, eyes hollow. I look like a ghost haunting my own life.
I choke. That image is too close. Too recent. Too real.
The other mirrors begin to shift—blurring, merging, distorting. They show variations of the same fears: rejection, invisibility, longing, shame. My breath fogs in the air. The room feels colder, like the warmth is being siphoned out of me.
She moans softly beside me. Her grip on my hand is firm now, pulsing with heat. Her eyes are half-lidded, glowing faintly like embers in a dying fire.
Then she speaks.
“This one,” she says, stepping toward the mirror with the party. “This is my favorite.”
Her voice is velvet and hungry. Being put on the spot like this makes my stomach twist. But the more scared I feel, the more something else stirs inside me. A flicker of defiance. A spark of bravery. Because as much as I fear her—fear what she knows, what she sees—the less I’m able to run. To turn away. To escape whatever this is.
She begins to touch herself—slowly, deliberately. Her free hand glides over her body, tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her chest. She bites her lower lip, eyes fluttering as she squeezes herself and savors the pleasure. Her breath deepens, becomes rhythmic, almost ritualistic.
“I’ve tasted many kinds of fear,” she says. “But yours… yours is layered. It’s not just terror. It’s restraint. It’s longing. It’s the kind that changes people.”
I want to deny her. I want to scream that this isn’t real. That my senses are lying. But I can’t. The mirrors are too vivid. Her voice too intimate. My body too weak.
I watch her face as she drinks in the sensations I’m giving. Her beauty flickers—just for a moment. Beneath her skin, I see something ancient. Something monstrous. A flash of shadow and bone. Eyes like hollow stars. It’s gone in an instant, but it leaves a chill in my spine.
She embraces me. Her arms wrap around me, pulling me close. I feel her slender frame beneath the heavy layers of her dress. Her warmth builds—feverish, burning, like a furnace stoked by my fear. Then I feel myself rising. My feet leave the ground. My body lifts into the air.
The mirrors flash faster now—strobing with scenes of my worst fears. My head spins. My chest burns. My limbs go numb. I feel myself unraveling, like a pool of emotions being drained drop by drop. My memories flicker. My strength fades.
My mind screams: Run. Get away. Escape. But I can’t move. I’m suspended in her grip, in her hunger. And yet—something else stirs. A deeper part of me. A part that’s been buried. It begins to rise, like a shape emerging from deep water. A flicker of power. Of resistance.
But it’s fragile. Fading.
In one desperate burst, I push her away.
“Stop,” I gasp.
We drop to the floor. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs. She stops moaning. Her glow dims. We lie there, tangled in silence, both of us breathing heavily.
The mirrors go blank. The room is still. My emotions are gone—drained, emptied. Her connection to me severed the moment she lost her grip on my hand.
The urge to run still claws at me. But as I watch her lying there—her chest rising and falling, her face flushed and vulnerable.
Then insanity crosses my mind.
Not the kind born of panic, but the kind that blooms from desire too long denied. A weakness I’ve never felt before—raw, absurd, electric. It’s not fear anymore. It’s hunger. A need to touch, to taste, to claim something forbidden.
I dig at the floor to get to my hands and knees and crawl to her, slow and deliberate, like a man possessed. She lies there, breath shallow, eyes wide, watching me approach. Her lips part slightly. Her chest rises with anticipation.
I hover above her. She looks up at me, and I feel it—an addiction. A pull. A gravitational ache. I kiss her. I don’t know why. I just know I have to. I have to take the chance. A chance I would have never dared moments ago. But now… now it feels inevitable.
Her lips are soft, cool, and then suddenly warm. Her tongue meets mine, and the kiss deepens—wet, urgent, consuming. My chest burns, not with fear, but with something new. Something alive. With every breath, every press of her mouth, my fear dissolves. Childhood memories begin to fade like smoke. All that remains is heat. Lust. Need.
She kisses down my neck, slow and deliberate, sucking at the corners of my jaw. Her breath is icy and sweet, like mint and moonlight. My body responds without hesitation. My erection swells, pulsing with desire. I feel powerful. Masculine. Alive.
She moans softly as she sucks harder, her fingers digging into my back. And then I feel it—the drain. That slow, burning siphon. The pull of something vital leaving me. My strength. My essence. The more I give, the more she clings to me, grasps at me, claws at me like a drowning woman desperate for air.
The burn intensifies. It’s no longer pleasure. It’s pain. A beautiful, terrifying pain.
“Stop,” I demand, voice ragged.
I collapse beside her, breathless, drenched in sweat. My heart pounds like a war drum. But even now, even emptied, I want more. I crave her. I crave the feeling. The danger.
“What are you doing to me?” I ask, voice low.
She turns her head toward me, her eyes glowing faintly again. Her lips are red, swollen, glistening.
“I think you already know.”
“What happens if we keep going?”
She smiles, but it’s sad. Wistful.
“The same thing that happens to anyone who has too much of something taken. You die,” she says, panting.
The words land like a stone in my chest. But I don’t flinch. I don’t recoil. I feel like I could handle anything she says.
“Why me?” I ask.
She turns fully toward me now, her body trembling slightly. Her glow is dim, but her eyes are clear.
“Because you didn’t run. Most people scream. They fight me. They try to escape. But you… you let me in. You showed me who you are. I’ve never tasted such exquisite energy before.”
I lie there on the cold stone floor, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat. The mirrors are blank now—silent, emptied. My fear is gone. Not buried. Not ignored. Just… gone.
And in its place, something new blooms: stillness. Strength. A quiet, unfamiliar confidence.
I turn my head toward her.
She’s curled beside me, breath shallow, dress clinging to her like it’s melting into her skin. Her glow has faded. Her eyes—once radiant—are now glassy, uncertain. She looks less like a creature and more like a woman who’s lost something vital.
For the first time, I see her clearly.
Not the costume. Not the seduction. Not the hunger.
I see the loneliness in her. The ache. The way she trembles slightly, as if unsure whether to reach for me or retreat.
I sit up slowly, studying her. The curve of her shoulder. The way her fingers curl inward like she’s bracing for rejection. She’s not dangerous now. She’s exposed.
I reach out—not to reclaim power, but to offer something else. Something human. I brush her hair back from her face. Her skin is warm now. Human-warm. Her breath catches.
“Is this real?” I ask. “Are you real? Do you really feed on my fear?”
She focuses, her gaze locking onto mine. Her lips curve into a soft, tired smile.
“I’m as real as life and death.”