“I’ll expose whatever you’re hiding,” she muttered under her breath, brushing an auburn strand behind her ear. Her fingers trembled, but she pressed on.
Tonight’s event—Patrons’ Day—had a reputation among underground circles. Artists whispered of its exclusivity, occultists revered it as sacred, and conspiracy theorists swore by tales of dark rituals. Lila had built a career unraveling enigmas, but this one felt heavier, its weight pressing against her ribs.
#
Inside, the museum exhaled ancient air. Shadows spilled across polished marble floors, and faint scents of wax and decay clung to the walls. Glass cases displayed relics defying explanation—alien shapes of bone and metal, their purposes inscrutable. Paintings with gilded frames watched her every step, their eyes following with uncanny precision.
“Ah, the press arrives,” a voice murmured behind her.
She turned sharply. Callum Veyl emerged from the shadows, a figure too poised for comfort. His tailored coat framed a wiry frame, and his pale, aristocratic features carried an air of menace. Silver rings adorned his fingers, each glinting in the dim light as he gestured grandly.
“You must be Lila Morgan,” he said, a thin smile curving across his lips. “I’ve read your… entertaining work.”
“And you must be Callum Veyl,” she replied, forcing a smile. “Curator of this charming house of horrors.”
His laugh flowed smoothly, carrying an edge of serpentine delight. “Charming, yes. Horrors? A matter of interpretation. Tonight, Patrons’ Day celebrates art, ambition, and, dare I say, courage.” His gaze lingered as if unwrapping her thoughts.
Her muscles tightened. “I’ll decide for myself.”
“By all means.” Veyl inclined his head, a predator acknowledging prey. “But curiosity often entangles the unwary.”
With a flourish of his coat, he vanished into the sea of guests. Lila exhaled, her pulse quickening. The man exuded charisma, yet it felt razor-sharp.
#
The museum’s depths revealed a surreal procession of eccentrics: artists draped in velvet, women adorned with sigils painted across their skin, a man wearing a crown of thorns. Artifacts glowed faintly in vitrines, statues loomed ominously, and paintings seemed alive with implied motion.
One room drew her as if summoned. Inside, a towering black mirror dominated the space, framed in tarnished silver. Candles surrounded it, casting flickering light on its surface. Unlike other mirrors, it reflected nothing but her.
She stepped closer, unable to look away. Her reflection moved with an almost imperceptible delay, a subtle, disconcerting lag.
“This is where reality starts to blur,” said a soft voice behind her.
Lila stiffened, turning. A woman with violet-streaked hair and a worn leather jacket leaned casually against the doorway.
“You shouldn’t stare too long,” the woman added.
“Who are you?” Lila asked.
“Wren. Artist. Outcast from this little cult. And you?”
“Lila. Journalist.”
“Of course you are.” Wren’s smirk carried a sardonic edge. “Well, journalist, the mirror doesn’t show truth. It shows what it wants.”
Before Lila could respond, her reflection shifted. The face staring back was hers—but altered. She wore a ragged coat, soot streaked her face, and her eyes brimmed with anguish. The scene around her showed a desolate wasteland.
“What—” Her fingers brushed the mirror’s cold surface. The world fractured into darkness.
#
Light returned, revealing an ashen wasteland. Twisted, skeletal trees clawed at the horizon, and black spires jutted from the ground. The air burned cold, carrying an eerie hum that filled her ears. In the distance, a low growl rose.
She turned to find a hulking creature—an amalgamation of flesh and bone, its hollow eyes glowing faintly. Its jagged teeth glistened with hunger.
She ran.
The earth cracked beneath her feet. The air tugged at her lungs. Panic clawed at her mind as the beast’s snarls grew closer.
“Lila!” a voice called, sharp and urgent.
She skidded to a halt. “Wren?!”
The artist appeared, pulling her behind a crumbling pillar. “I told you not to touch that damn thing!”
“What is this place?” Lila’s voice wavered.
“Callum’s playground,” Wren said bitterly. “A trap for the curious. You’re not the first.”
“And how do we get out?”
“Not alone.”
#
In the Black Mirror Room, Callum Veyl watched the artifact ripple faintly. His expression was inscrutable, but his eyes glinted with satisfaction. Behind him, a figure stepped forward—red curls framing a wary but determined face.
“I think I can help,” the woman said softly.
Veyl turned, his voice sharp. “Who are you?”
“A witch,” she replied. “And I’ve had enough of your games.”
#
Inside the mirror realm, Lila and Wren pushed through shifting landscapes of torment. Images of Lila’s deepest regrets clawed at her—relationships broken, ambitions sacrificed. Wren wrestled with her own ghosts—dreams abandoned, faith lost. Every step weighed heavier, yet they pressed on, gathering fragments of hope amid despair.
“Destroy the mirror,” Wren said, her voice raw.
Lila hesitated, gripping her phone—a fragile link to the outside world. “If I lose this—”
“Some things are worth losing.”
Tears blurred her vision. She hurled the phone into the mirror. The shattering echoed like a scream as light exploded, consuming everything.
#
Lila opened her eyes. She lay on the museum’s marble floor, shards of the mirror glinting around her. Wren stood nearby, bruised but alive, while the witch muttered an incantation that carried an air of finality.
Callum’s voice drifted from the shadows. “You’ve destroyed a masterpiece.”
“No,” Lila said, rising unsteadily. “I revealed the truth.”
As she stepped into the cold night air, the world felt lighter yet more fragile. The museum’s silhouette receded behind her, but its presence lingered like a scar.
No comments:
Post a Comment