Mirror, Mirror

The first thing I notice when the coffin splits is the smell. Not the sour-sweet stench of a rotting body—I’ve dealt with that plenty—but something else. A heavy, damp mold that seeps into your lungs and makes you think of crawl spaces and blackened wallpaper peeling in abandoned houses. It’s not the smell of death. It’s the smell of something worse.

My viewers can’t smell it through the mirror, but they see the way my face screws up. The feed’s still live, the little red dot glowing in the corner. Three thousand people are watching this. Maybe more by now.

“Y’all smell that?” I ask, grinning like an idiot because I don’t know what else to do. My voice is steady, but my palms are damp, not just because of the splinter jammed in my left one. “Probably just the wood rot. Coffins this old, they’ve usually got that funk.”

The mirror, hanging from the birch tree, ripples as if to remind me that people are listening. Waiting. My breath fogs the air as I crouch back down. The coffin lid splintered with its edges pointing outward. The inside is empty except for the shroud—a ragged thing the color of swamp water, crumbling to the touch. I pull it aside with two fingers, careful not to let it catch on my gloves.

Nothing.

For a second, I stare. Three thousand viewers. Three thousand pairs of eyes. I can almost hear the collective disappointment bleeding through the screen, a silent groan in the mirror’s faint hum. Then disappointment flips, turns hard and bright like a knife catching the light.

A crow caws. My stomach twists as I hear it. It’s just a bird, I tell myself, just a sound. But it cuts through the air sharp and mean, like it’s laughing.

“Well,” I say, louder this time, “we sure got ourselves a mystery, don’t we?”

I half-expect a reply from the mirror, maybe a snarky comment from one of my regulars, but the glass stays silent. It’s glowing now, faint and ghostly. My audience is too busy typing to talk, wondering why there’s an empty grave on a farm without a living soul living on it in fifty years.

The old Ford’s engine sputters to life with a reluctant growl. I sit there, hands gripping the wheel, staring at the dark farmhouse in the rearview mirror. The thing’s a ruin—crooked porch, windows like empty eyes—but there’s something about it tonight, making me want to keep my lights on it like it might get up and follow me if I look away.

The newspaper sits on the passenger seat, the headline glaring at me in bold, black letters: BUS FLIPS, KILLS 23 ORPHANS.

It’s dated July 21, 1919. Over a hundred years ago. The newspaper is brittle and yellowed with age, but the ink seems fresh, like right off the press. My eyes return to the stack I saw in the coffin—hundreds of them, bundled like firewood. The same headline, over and over. I can’t stop staring at the words.

A soft knock on the window startles me so badly that I nearly jump out of my skin. I fumble for the door handle before realizing it’s the Deputy. She leans down, her face illuminated by the headlights, a mix of concern and amusement in her expression.

“You okay?” she asks, muffled by the glass.

I roll the window down, the smell of wet leaves and something metallic wafting in. “Yeah. Fine. Just…thinking.”

She nods toward the paper on the seat. “About that? Or about the Sheriff breathing down your neck?”

“Both,” I admit.

The Sheriff’s a hard man to read. Like how he looked at that coffin—it wasn’t the usual stoic disapproval. It was like knowing something. Something he wasn’t about to share.

Her face softens. “Listen, I know you’re not big on advice, but if I were you, I’d let this one lie. Whatever’s going on here, it’s–I don’t know. Weird. Even for you.”

“Weird’s kind of my thing,” I say, forcing a grin. It doesn’t land. She shakes her head, the beam of her flashlight bobbing across the ground as she walks back toward the farmhouse.

I watch her go, then glance back at the newspaper. My hand hovers over it, hesitant. It’s all wrong like it’s still connected to that coffin, the grave, the mirror hanging back on that tree.

I grab it anyway. Curiosity is a hell of a drug.

The paper’s heavier than it looks. The texture is strange, too—smoother than it should be, almost oily. My fingers tremble as I unfold it, the headline glaring up at me again, the same blocky font: BUS FLIPS, KILLS 23 ORPHANS.

Below is a photograph, a grainy black-and-white image of a mangled bus lying on its side in a ditch, surrounded by a crowd of people. The faces in the crowd are blurred and indistinct, but the longer I stare, the more it feels like they’re looking back at me. My mouth goes dry.

I flip the page. The article is short, just a few sentences: “In the early hours of July 20, 1919, a bus carrying 23 orphans from St. Cecilia’s Home for Children overturned on Route 15, killing all aboard. The driver, whose name has not been released, is suspected of falling asleep at the wheel. Investigations are ongoing.”

I flip to the next page. And the next. The article repeats. Over and over, the same headline, the photograph, the words. Then, on the last page, something different. A list of names. Twenty-three of them. My stomach twists as I read the first few aloud, my voice barely above a whisper: “Mary Abbott…Samuel Barnes…Eleanor Caldwell…”

The names mean nothing to me but leave a sour taste in my mouth, like copper and ash. I reach the last name, my eyes catching on it, refusing to move. My breath hitches. I know that name. Everyone in this town does. She went missing three years ago.

I glance at the farmhouse in the mirror again, my headlights still fixed on its rotting facade. The windows are dark. Empty. But for the first time, I feel like something is watching me from inside.

The paper slips from my hands, landing face-up on the passenger seat.

The photograph has changed. The bus is still there, lying on its side in the ditch. But the crowd–it’s closer now, faces clearer. And one is mine.

I just sat there, staring at the photograph. My face stares back, pale and indistinct among the others. The me in the picture looks off, drawn with a trembling hand. The lines of my jaw blur into the shapes of the others around me as if the crowd and I are all part of the same horrible smear.

I cannot move, can’t blink. I can barely even breathe.

A heavy knock on the driver’s side window snaps me out of it. Hard this time, three sharp raps reverberating through the truck. My heart lurches into my throat.

It’s the Sheriff.

He stands there, broad and silent, his aviators reflecting the Ford’s headlights at me in twin blinding flares. I roll down the window slower than before.

“Problem?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly, like it’s crawling out of a long, dark tunnel.

“No,” I say too quickly, my voice cracking. “No problem. Just… needed a minute to think.”

The Sheriff doesn’t move. He doesn’t even seem to breathe, stands there, his face unreadable behind those damn sunglasses. Then, without a word, he lifts a hand and gestures toward the farmhouse.

“The deputy says you found something,” he says, tone flat.

I glance at the newspaper on the seat, the image burning a hole in my peripheral vision. “Just some old papers. Nothing important.”

“Is that right?”

The way he says it makes my skin crawl. Like he already knows. He’s waiting for me to admit to something I don’t understand yet.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Old headlines. Bus crash. Tragic, but… ancient history, you know?”

The Sheriff tilts his head just a fraction, and for that second, I think I see something move in the reflection of his glasses. Something that is not me.

“You should head home,” he says finally, stepping back from the truck.

“Leave the digging to us.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He turns and walks back toward the farmhouse, his silhouette disappearing into the fog like it’s swallowing him whole.

I don’t go home.

The newspaper sits in the truck seat beside me, that photograph taunting me every time I glance at it. The names are still there. Cynthia Wilder is still there. My name isn’t, not yet, but that face in the crowd—it’s me. I know it’s me.

I parked the truck on the shoulder of State Route 17, where the bus crash happened. The moon is high, washing the old asphalt in pale light. Ahead, the road curves, sloping down into a wide valley. At the bottom, I see a rusted guardrail, twisted and broken.

The site of the crash.

The air is colder here, heavy with moisture that clings to my skin. The only sound is the crunch of my boots on the gravel shoulder as I head down. My flashlight cuts through the fog, illuminating patches of cracked pavement and tangled weeds.

When I reach the guardrail, I stop. The ditch below is overgrown, a mess of brambles and wild grass, but I can make out the shape of something metal buried in the dirt.

The bus.

It’s still here, half-sunken into the earth, its windows shattered, its frame crumpled like a tin can. Rust drips from every surface, the color of dried blood.

I climb down, my breath hitching as I get closer. The air feels thick and hard to pull into my lungs. My flashlight flickers, and for a moment, I swear I hear soft, high-pitched voices like children whispering just out of earshot.

The inside of the bus is worse. The torn seats and the floor warped, but the smell got me first. That same damp, rotting smell from the coffin, only stronger.

I shine the light down the aisle. At the very back, something moves.

“Hello?” I call out, my voice trembling.

No answer.

I take a step closer, the beam of my flashlight shaking. The figure at the back of the bus is small, hunched over, its shoulders rising and falling like the thing is breathing.

“Hey!” I shout louder this time. “Who’s there?”

The figure turns.

It’s a girl. No older than eight or nine, face pale and smudged with dirt. She stares at me, her eyes wide and glassy, her lips moving silently.

Behind her, more figures emerge. Boys and girls, all dressed in tattered clothes, their faces drawn and lifeless. They fill the aisle, their heads cocked at odd angles, their eyes locked on me.

The girl at the front opens her mouth, and I hear her. “Why did you leave us?”

My flashlight dies. The darkness swallows me whole, thick and suffocating. My fingers fumble with the flashlight, slapping it uselessly as if brute force will bring it back to life. It doesn’t.

The whispering starts again–low murmurs prickle my skin like icy needles. They’re coming from all around me, inside the bus and out, weaving through the fog that creeps in through the broken windows.

I can’t see them anymore, but I can feel them—those glassy-eyed children, their breath brushing my skin like a chill wind.

“Why did you leave us?” the girl’s voice repeats, closer now.

“I didn’t—” My voice cracks. I don’t even know what I’m saying. “I didn’t leave you. I don’t even know you.”

A tiny, ice-cold hand brushes my arm, and I yelp, jerking away. My back hits the side of the bus with a metallic clang that echoes in the dead silence.

“You do know us,” a boy’s voice whispers.

“No!” I shout–louder this time, trying to drown out the whispers, the chill, the suffocating darkness. “I don’t know you! Leave me alone!”

The whispers stop. For a moment, there’s nothing but my ragged breathing as my heart pounds loud and erratic, a drumbeat in the void.

Then, a soft glow blooms in the darkness. It’s faint at first but grows warm and golden, illuminating the bus. The children are gone. Gone are the broken windows and rotting seats—all of it looks whole again, like coming back through time.

I’m standing in the aisle of a bus, its engine humming softly, its headlights cutting through the fog outside. And the children, they’re all here. Sitting in the seats, talking and laughing, their faces bright and full of life.

At the front of the bus, a man in a crisp uniform grips the steering wheel, humming a tune I don’t recognize. His eyes flick to me in the rearview mirror, and he smiles.

“Take a seat,” he says, his voice kind but firm. “We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?” I ask, my voice trembling.

The driver doesn’t answer. The children don’t seem to hear me either. They keep talking and laughing, their voices rising and falling in a strange, hypnotic rhythm. I stumble forward, gripping the edge of a seat to steady myself. One of the boys—a freckle-faced kid with a mop of curly red hair—turns to look at me.

“You were supposed to be with us,” he says, his smile fading.

“What do you mean?”

“You were on the list,” he says, his voice soft but insistent. “You didn’t show up.”

“I don’t understand,” I whisper.

The boy doesn’t answer. He turns back around, his laughter blending with the others.

The bus lurches, and I nearly lose my footing. The engine growls louder, the headlights piercing deep into the fog.

“Sit down!” the driver barks, his voice sharp now.

I drop into the nearest seat, gripping the armrests so hard my knuckles ache. The bus speeds up, the hum of the engine turning into a roar. The children are still laughing, but it sounds wrong now—too loud, too hollow, echoing in a way that makes my stomach twist.

Outside, the fog clears just enough for me to see.

A cliff.

“Stop,” I scream, leaping to my feet.

The driver doesn’t even flinch. He keeps humming, his hands steady on the wheel. The children turn to look at me, their faces calm and eerily serene.

“This is where it ends,” the freckle-faced boy says.

The bus hurtles toward the edge, and I can’t move, think, or do anything but stare as the ground disappears beneath us. We’re falling. The children are laughing again, their voices rising, a chaotic chorus filling my head, chest, and soul. And then—impact.

I wake up in my truck, gasping for air, my hands clutching the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. The bus is gone. The fog is gone. The road stretches out ahead of me, empty and silent. But the newspaper remains on the passenger seat, the photograph staring up at me.

And my face—my blurred, indistinct face—is smiling.

The next day, the Sheriff finds me. He doesn’t say much and hands me a folded note before walking away. When I open it, my blood runs cold. It’s the list of names from the newspaper. And mine is at the bottom. I stare at the list, my breath catching in my throat. My name isn’t just there—but scrawled. The handwriting is jagged like someone scribbled in a panic, ink smudged as if written in the rain.

It’s impossible. I wasn’t even alive in 1919. Wasn’t I?

My chest tightens, my mind racing through the fragments of last night—the bus, the children, the cliff. The memory claws at me, vivid yet unreal, like a dream I can’t shake.

The Sheriff’s words pull me back. “We need to talk,” he says, his voice low, measured.

I follow him into the station. The deputy’s there, leaning against a desk, her face pale. A single folder sits in front of her, its contents spilling out—a bundle of old photographs, grainy and worn, alongside what looks like a journal.

“You wanna explain this?” the Sheriff says, sliding one of the photos toward me.

It’s the bus just as I remember it—sleek, shiny, sitting at the edge of a wooded clearing. But it’s the kids that draw my eye. They’re gathered in front, grinning at the camera, arms slung around each other’s shoulders.

And there I am, standing in the back, my face and same posture, the crowbar resting casually on my shoulder.

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “That’s not me. That can’t be me.”

“It is,” the deputy says, her voice trembling. “We triple-checked.” She pulls out the journal, flipping it open to a page covered in spidery handwriting. “Your name’s here, too. Over and over. And look at this.”

She points to a date. July 20, 1919. The day the bus went over the cliff.

The Sheriff clears his throat. “Story goes, the driver lost control. They say he saw something on the road. Swerved to avoid it.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing. “Thing is, a witness—an old farmer who lived nearby—claimed there wasn’t anything in the road. Claimed the driver was arguing with a man. A man who wasn’t supposed to be there.”

My blood runs cold. “Come on,” I manage, forcing a laugh that dies in my throat. “You’re saying I—I’ve been dead for a hundred years?”

The Sheriff doesn’t flinch. “I’m saying something’s wrong. Your name keeps turning up where it shouldn’t. And that mirror of yours?” He jerks his thumb toward a table where the mirror sits, its silver surface dull, like tarnished metal. “That thing’s been buzzing since we brought it in.”

It’s buzzing like a swarm of bees are trapped inside. I step closer, and the sound grows sharper until it’s all I can hear.

The mirror shimmers with a light rippling beneath its surface. And then I see the children. Their faces press against the glass, their eyes wide and empty, mouths moving in silent screams.

“Why did you leave us?” the girl’s voice echoes.

The mirror shakes violently, the Celtic knots along its edge glowing like embers. I reach for it, but the Sheriff grabs my arm, pulling me back.

“Don’t,” he barks.

The mirror shatters. Shards of glass rain downward, cutting my skin, but I barely feel it. They scatter across the floor, each reflecting a fragment of the children’s faces. And then, just as suddenly, the buzzing stops. Silence.

The Sheriff lets go of my arm, stepping back, his face a mask of controlled panic. The Deputy looks like she’s about to be sick.

“What the hell…?” she whispers.

I don’t answer. I can’t. Because in one of the pieces, I see my face. And behind me, the bus.

I don’t sleep that night. Can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I’m back on that bus, the children’s laughter echoing in my ears.

The list sits on my kitchen table, taunting me. I try to ignore it, to convince myself it’s just a bad dream, a cruel joke, a case of mistaken identity. But deep down, I know the truth. I was on that bus. I was supposed to die, too. And somehow, I didn’t.

The next day, I got a call. It’s a woman, voice shaky, barely above a whisper.

“You don’t know me,” she says, “but I think we need to talk.”

“Who is this?” I ask, my heart pounding.

“My name’s Margaret,” she says. “Margaret Yates. My brother—he was on that bus. And I think he’s still with you.”

The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone, the dial tone buzzing in my ear, and I know one thing–it isn’t over.

The following morning, the jagged remnants of the mirror sit in a dustpan. I’m seated nearby, staring at my hand—the splinters are gone, but a strange tingling remains as if the broken glass left something deeper behind. Margaret Yates whispered words from yesterday echo in my mind. Her brother was on the bus. She thinks he’s “still with me.” It makes no sense, but sense has been in short supply tonight.

“I want to report the phone call,” I say, standing abruptly. The Deputy looks up, puzzled.

“To the Sheriff? Now?”

“Yeah, now. Something’s off. Maybe he’ll know what to make of it.”

The Sheriff’s office is dim, the overhead lights casting long shadows on the cracked linoleum floor. He’s hunched over his desk, reviewing the journal from the coffin.

“Sheriff,” I start, but my voice falters.

On his desk, next to the journal, is a piece of the mirror—a shard no bigger than a playing card, its edges glinting with faint, ghostly light.

“You didn’t take all of it,” I say, looking back at Deputy, who now stands behind me.

“I didn’t leave anything!” she protests.

The Sheriff glances up, frowning. “It was there when I sat down,” he says. “Figured you’d missed a piece. Thought it might become evidence.”

He pushes the shard toward me, the same unflappable expression on his face. “You wanna take it, go ahead. Doesn’t seem like it wants to leave you alone anyway.”

I reach for it hesitantly, my fingertips brushing the surface. The world lurches. The dim office flickers like an old film reel, the colors bleeding out. The shard pulls me into itself.

“Wait!” the Deputy yells, grabbing my arm—but it’s too late. The last thing I see is the Sheriff’s face—stony, unreadable, a statue watching the inevitable unfold.

I hit the ground hard, with the air knocked from my lungs. The earth beneath me is cold and damp. Around me, the world is impossibly bright, the edges too sharp. Birds chirp, and the distant hum of an engine fills the air. I sit up slowly, my hands trembling as I look around.

The bus sits, parked at the edge of a dirt road, its black-and-gold exterior gleaming in the morning sun. The children are milling about, laughing and playing tag, their voices high and carefree. It’s exactly like the photograph. I stagger to my feet, my mind spinning. It is not real–can’t be, but it is.

And then I see him. The driver is leaning against the side of the bus, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyes following the children in a way that makes my stomach churn. I know his face. It was in the journal, his name scrawled next to mine.

Harold Wilkes. Pedophile.

The word burns in my brain, a brand that sears through the haze of disbelief. I’m not just here—I’m here for a reason. I move toward Wilkes, fists clenched, but a hand grabs me from behind.

It’s one of the children, a boy of about ten, the name ‘Yates’ written across his too-big gray sweatshirt. His face is pale, his eyes wide with fear. “Don’t do it,” he whispers.

“What?” I ask, startled.

“They won’t believe you,” he says, his voice trembling. “They’ll say you’re crazy. They’ll say it’s your fault.”

I stare at him, my heart pounding. “How do you—”

A sharp whistle cuts through the air.

“Time to go!” Wilkes calls, his voice cheerful and utterly wrong. The children rush to the bus, climbing aboard in a chaotic jumble of laughter and chatter. The boy lingers for a moment, his hand still on me.

“Don’t let him win,” he says softly, and then he’s gone, swallowed by the bus.

The events unfold in a blur. I board the bus, taking a seat near the back. The children are everywhere, their excitement infectious despite the dark weight in my chest. Wilkes starts the engine, whistling tunelessly as the bus jolts forward. I wait, my pulse racing, my eyes locked on him. The road ahead is narrow, bordered by thick woods. I know what’s coming.

The curve. The swerve. The cliff. The bus lurches as Wilkes suddenly jerks the wheel, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror.

“What the hell are you doing?” I shout, standing up.

The children scream as the bus veers wildly, the wheels skidding on loose gravel. I rush toward him, grabbing his arm, but he shoves me back with surprising strength.

“You don’t understand!” he yells, his voice cracking. “They made me do it! I didn’t have a choice!”

The bus careens toward the edge, the trees blurring into a green smear. I lunge for the wheel, pulling it hard to the right. The bus tilts, teetering on the brink, and for a moment, everything freezes. And then it tips.

I wake up in a cold, dark room, the air thick with the smell of mildew. My head hurts, and my wrists ache where I’m bound to the bedframe. A figure looms above me, silhouetted against the faint light of a barred window. “He’s awake,” a gruff voice says.

Another figure steps into view—a man in a starched uniform, his expression grim. “You’ve got some explaining to do,” he says.

I try to speak, but my throat is dry, and my voice is barely audible.

“The bus,” I whisper. “The children—”

“The bus went over the cliff,” the man interrupts. “Killed every last one of them. And you’re telling me you don’t know how your name’s not on the manifest as the driver?”

The room spins, my mind reeling.

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “That’s not…I didn’t…”

But the truth is already unraveling, pulling me under. Because deep down, I know. I’ve been here before.