Careful to avoid stepping on the glass, I crept into the bathroom toward the sink, searching for what would have caused the mirror to shatter. But there was nothing out of place.
I focused my attention on the mirror itself. My reflection peered back at me from the remaining fragment, but something was wrong. Instead of wallpaper behind me, there was only darkness.
Frowning, I leaned closer until my reflection filled the glass. For a split second, a shadow slid across my face, obscuring my own features, making me look like someone I didn’t recognize. Curious, I leaned closer still, until only my left eye filled the glass.
I studied the flecks of green and gold. Nothing seemed wrong, nothing unusual. The colors I’d seen every day for my entire life were just as they should be.
Then the reflection blinked.
I cried out in surprise and stumbled backward, stepping on slivers of the mirror, cutting my feet, leaving smears of blood as I scrambled to put distance between me and the image in the mirror.
When my back hit the wall, I stood there, shaking, my heart hammering, staring at the shard that had blinked. But whatever had stared back at me from the mirror didn’t return. I waited, my eyes scanning the bathroom, fearing what might happen next.
When nothing else occurred, I squeezed my eyes shut, drawing in several slow breaths until my pulse resumed a normal rhythm. Calmer now, I opened my eyes, taking in the glass glittering at my feet, the blood on the floor where shards had cut my soft flesh in my haste to get away from what was behind the mirror.
As I bent to pick up a piece of glass, the window above the bathtub sprung open with a crash that rattled the pane.
I yelped in surprise and nearly fell but caught the edge of the vanity. Cursing under my breath, I crept to the tub and hesitantly peeked over the side. No drowned woman appeared, so I stepped into the tub and reached up to close the window. It wouldn’t budge.
“Damn it,” I muttered, thumping the frame, trying to jar it loose. I braced, pulled down again, groaning with the strain. “Come on!”
It gave all at once, slamming down. My bloody feet slipped on the porcelain, my head cracking against the windowsill as I fell.
Moaning, I tried to sit up, but the world spun, and I slid back down, breathing through the pain. As the initial pain began to ebb, dulling to a persistent throb, I suddenly realized cold water lapped at my hips.
What the hell?
The tub was filling. Fast.
I forced myself to sit up to turn off the water that I must’ve turned on when I fell. My vision swam before me, making it difficult to see. I blinked through the blur, pawing for the faucet. My fingers found the knob and curled around it. I tried to twist it, but it wouldn’t budge.
I grasped with both hands, straining. “Shit!”
Instead of fighting to turn it off in the icy water, I swung my leg over the side of the tub and started to climb out, but something grabbed my hair and yanked, pulling me under.
I thrashed, fighting to get free. Each time I broke the surface, it dragged me back down. I kicked and flailed, desperately searching for something to hold onto. My lungs burned, screaming for air.
No! No! Not like this! I can’t die like this! Henry can’t find me—
And then it let go.
I exploded up, gasping for air, and somehow managed to haul myself out, then collapsed on the tile, shaking, too cold and terrified to move. But after a few moments, I forced myself up on my knees and reached for the faucet to turn off the water before it overflowed the tub.
Disbelief froze me where I knelt.
The water had already stopped flowing, the tub empty.
I turned to look behind me.
The shards of glass were gone, the mirror intact.
The only proof that anything had occurred was the pulsing ache in my head where a sizeable lump was beginning to rise and the cuts on the bottoms of my feet.
Fighting the dizziness from what was likely a concussion, I managed to peel off my wet clothes and grab a towel from the linen closet. The cuts on my feet weren’t deep, but there were enough that I dug out sterile gauze and medical tape from the cabinet and bandaged them.
I limped toward my room, wincing a little with each step, and flinched when I passed the full-length mirror. Ugly purple and yellow bruises were beginning to form on my shoulder. I let the towel drop and examined the rest of me, new marks mapping every place my body ached.
Fear and desperation pressed heavy on my chest as I realized what could’ve happened had I not been able to escape. What could’ve happened to Henry if I’d drowned. Who would’ve taken care of him? Certainly not my mother. God—growing up with her would be worse than anything at Dawes House.
