“Problem was, I’d just sold the damn thing. A week earlier. To a woman who’d moved to Baton Rouge.” She leaned in, her voice lower now. “Three days later, the woman was dead. Found in her apartment with the mirror smashed to pieces beside her. Police said it was an accident. A fall. But I saw the scene.”
Delilah dragged a finger across her throat.
“No glass in the cuts.”
I stiffened.
“She hadn’t fallen. And she hadn’t broken that mirror. Something came out of it. Something took her, and when it was done, it crawled back in.”
“Jesus, Delilah,” Beau said, breaking the silence. Everyone let out an uncomfortable laugh; I curled in closer to him, just wanting to hide in his warmth, his safety.
Delilah nodded. “The man came back after that. Wanted to know where it had gone—where the mirror was now. When I told him the woman died…he just smiled. Said, ‘It always finds a way back to me.’”
The fire popped hard, like it agreed.
No one spoke for a beat. Milo growled low in his throat and shifted closer to Shane’s boots.
“Okay,” Whit said, voice a touch higher than usual. “So. Never buying a mirror again. Cool.”
Delilah just smiled and took a slow sip from the bottle. “You asked. Now who’s next?”
Shane swirled the whiskey in his cup.
“Noelle’s got a good one,” he said. “Tell ‘em the Shadow Painter story.”
I blinked at him. “Shane?—”
“Oh come on,” he said, nudging my foot with his. “You know it’s the perfect vibe right now.”
“But everyone knows that one,” I said. “I mean…God, it’s like the first episode ofWhispers.All the ghost cat stuff…”
“I’m pretty sure I’m the only listener here,” Delilah said. “Go on—I mean, if you want to.”
I exhaled, staring into the fire. “Alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
A few half-sarcastic oohs echoed around the circle. I rolled my eyes and leaned forward, letting my voice drop a little—just like my grandma used to when she’d try to scare the hell out of us.
“Okay. So…I know you think I’m some city girl. Shane never shuts up about Austin, or podcasts, or my hatred of nature. But I actually grew up in a place called Coffin Trace, Arkansas. It’s out in the middle of the Ouachita Mountains, and it’s got more ghost stories than paved roads. I would say…honestly, probably even more than Willow Grove. Most folks out there trace their roots back a long way—Appalachian transplants, Scotch-Irish settlers, a couple pockets of old French Catholic families. And with them came their stories. Everything from holler witches to headless hounds. But the one that stuck with me…the one everybody agreed wasreal…”
I let my voice dip as I glanced around the fire.
“…was the Shadow Painter.”
Holden visibly straightened. Whit leaned in like he was expecting a jump scare at any second.
“It’s a kind of ghost cat,” I said, “though calling it a cat doesn’t really do it justice. Some people say it’s a demon. Some say it’s an omen. But everyone agrees it looks wrong—too tall, too thin, all long limbs and sinew. Like a panther that got stretched in a funhouse mirror. Black fur so dark it eats light. Massive wings like an oversized bat. And its eyes…”
I gave Shane a look and he mouthed it along with me, just under his breath.
“…glow white. Like twin moons in a black sky.”
Delilah made a small impressed noise, passing me the bottle.
“They say it doesn’t leave tracks,” I continued, taking a sip and passing it along. “Doesn’t make noise. But if you see it—really see it—something bad’s coming. Real bad. Death, usually.”
“Any particular lore origin?” Holden asked, ever the academic.
I nodded. “There’s versions of the story as far back as the 1800s—journal entries, coroner’s reports, old Pentecostal sermons warning against ‘the devil’s eyes in the trees.’ Some people think it’s tied to the old coal trails; others think it was summoned accidentally during a backwoods revival. But the common thread is always the same: it shows up before someone dies.”
