The old phone in the attic rang for the first time in decades. It wasn't plugged in.
Jake, home alone during a storm, followed the ringing with hesitant steps. The attic door creaked open. Dust swirled in the beam of his flashlight as he approached the black rotary phone sitting on a crate. It rang again.
He answered.
A voice whispered, "Don't turn around."
Jake froze. He hadn't heard anyone climb the creaking stairs behind him.
"I said," the voice hissed louder, "don't turn around."
Jake's breath caught. He could feel cold air on his neck. Something was breathing with him, matching his rhythm.
"I see you," the voice giggled.
The phone went dead. Jake, trembling, slowly turned despite the warning.
Nothing.
But then he noticed his reflection in the dusty mirror by the crate - except it wasn't mimicking him. It smiled wide. Then it blinked. Backwards.
The reflection stepped forward. Jake couldn't move, couldn't scream. His own image grabbed him by the throat and pulled him into the glass with a snap.
The attic is quiet now, except for the phone.
It rings once every night.
And whoever answers becomes the next one inside the mirror.
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