Anaya finds an old key and unlocks a forbidden attic door. But some doors should never be opened—especially when something on the other side is waiting.
Anaya found the key on her grandmother’s old desk. It was small, silver, and oddly warm to the touch. There was no label, no hint of what it unlocked.
“Gran, what’s this for?” she asked, holding it up.
Her grandmother, usually gentle, stiffened. “That key,” she whispered, eyes dark, “must never be used.”
Anaya frowned. “But why?”
Gran took her hand, squeezing it tight. “Because some doors should remain closed.”
That night, Anaya couldn’t stop thinking about it. She had searched every drawer, every cabinet, every old trunk in the house. Nothing fit.
Except one place.
The attic.
She had never been allowed inside. “Too dangerous,” Gran had always said. But now, standing before the old wooden door, the key burning in her palm, Anaya’s curiosity won.
She slid the key into the lock. Turned it.
Click.
The door creaked open.
The air inside was thick, stale, heavy with dust and something else—something wrong. Moonlight spilled through a single window, illuminating the room.
It wasn’t empty.
An old mirror stood in the center, its surface rippling like water. Anaya’s breath hitched. No dust. No reflection. Just endless, shifting darkness.
A whisper curled around her ears. “Finally.”
Her heart pounded. The voice hadn’t come from behind her. It had come from inside the mirror.
She took a step back, but the floor beneath her creaked loudly. The whisper turned into a low chuckle.
The surface of the mirror bulged outward, stretching, forming the shape of a hand.
Then a face.
It was hers. But the smile was wrong. Too wide. Too knowing. Too eager.
Anaya turned to run.
The attic door slammed shut.
She grabbed the handle, yanking, pulling, screaming for her grandmother.
Behind her, footsteps.
Soft. Slow. Approaching.
Anaya squeezed her eyes shut. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.
A cold breath brushed her ear.
“You used the key,” her own voice whispered, but not from her lips. “Now you have to take my place.”
The floor gave way beneath her. Falling. Sinking. Drowning into the mirror.
Her last thought before everything went dark—
Some doors should remain closed.
And the attic stood silent once more.
Only the key remained.
The key remains, waiting for the next curious hand. Some doors should never be opened, but once they are—can they ever truly be locked again?
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