Page 98 of Little Spider

The mirror.

The old one above the dresser.

The one Damien covered with a sheet when we moved in.

Why did he cover it?

I move slowly, each step thundering in my ears. My throat is tight. My pulse is louder than the whistle now.

The door creaks open, and I see it.

The mirror.

The sheet is gone.

Across the surface?—

a message scrawled in red.

It’s written backwards, like he wanted me to read it the second I walked in.

I always knew you’d forget me.

So I carved myself into the walls.

Now you remember.

Now we can play again.

I spin, knife raised.

Empty room. No movement.

I move to the mirror, breath fogging the glass, heart clawing at my chest.

And then—I see something behind my reflection.

A vent.

Small.

Rusty.

Loose.

I drop to my knees and dig my fingers under the edge. The screw is already halfway out.

Like he wanted me to find it.

I rip it off and freeze.

Inside?

A cavity.

A space I should’ve known was there. A void running behind the drywall. Big enough to crawl through.

And inside it—Photos.