mirror, mirror.

There once was a girl. One with hollow eyes and a rotting heart. She spent most of her free time inside her own mind or in front of the mirror on the wall. She would sneak there at midnight; her bird bones rattling like sweet wooden wind chimes as she made her way up the stairs. The dusty floors clung to her bare heels, willing her to drink a cup of chamomile tea to settle her stomach, and go back to bed. But she dug her claws into the banister to keep her steady, and continued her journey to the mirror.

When she reached the door that held haunting secrets beyond its frame, she could almost taste the desolation that seeped through the cracks in the wood. A skeleton key crawled its way out of her nightgown pocket and into her shaking hand. After they saw what happened here, they always kept the door locked.

She put the key into its rightful place, the lock click-clicked in response. A satisfying noise to the girl's ears. Her dahlia lips formed a smug smile in that shadowy corridor. The door creaked on its hinges when she pushed her spindly winter hands against its chipped surface, and the temperature dropped instantly. Her breaths made delicate clouds in the air, her heart pitter-pattered frantically against her ribcage; throbbing bear-sized raindrops.

The room was a den of shadows. And, as always, it frightened the girl. Horrible things happen here, she thought to herself. As her timid ballerina feet met the limestone floor, she felt the crusted blood drops tattooed there. Hundreds of earthquakes crawled up her spine, cracking the surface; goose flesh danced along her collarbone towards her neck; her breath caught in her chest. A familiar mirror hung on the wall directly in front of the girl. She could just make out her reflection in its frosted surface; monstrous kohl eyes sinister holes etched into alabaster marble, thick ropes of wild snowy curls flowing to her infinitesimal waist, arms and legs emaciated tree limbs, and a skeleton lost underneath a thin layer of lace nightgown that fluttered unnervingly around her frail ankles. Her reflection was not unlike a ghost.

The mirror was a lake of phantoms. Callous phantoms who whisper-lied to the feeble girl. They poured their heartless whisper-lies into her ears. Whisper-lies that crawled their way into her brain, laying their contagious eggs there. Whisper-lies that coated her eyes with poison, distorting her vision and her thoughts. For this reason the girl longed to be near the phantoms, even though they were terrifying. She longed to dip her fingers in the frothy pool of silver they slept in, and listen to their chilling secrets.

She crept closer, letting only the very tips of her toes come in contact with the numbing floor. The girl could hear the soft murmur of the phantoms now. She wished for them to take the agonizing pain away, she wished for them to lead her by the hand to their world, the one behind the reflecting curtain.

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Who's the fairest of them all?" the girl whispered, taking a few steps closer, her hands trembling.

An arctic breeze washed over the girl, followed by the sound of the door creaking closed, which sent another round of convulsions through her tiny body. The room was now a puddle of ink. Dark shadows swallowed the girl. She could no longer move; her bare feet frozen to the stone floor. But she could hear the phantoms dripping from their pool, onto the limestone below. And soon, she felt a frigid whisper of air lick her hand, dragging her towards the mirror, where the ghosts lived.