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Prologue
The silence in the house was not empty, but thick, heavy, like water in a flooded cave. It absorbed every sound: the creaking of old floorboards under their own weight, the measured ticking of the clock in the living room, Artyom’s ragged breathing. He sat on the cold tiles of the kitchen, leaning his back against the refrigerator door, and looked at his hands. They were clean. But he remembered how a dark, sticky substance had hardened on them. He remembered the smell. The coppery, sweetish, nauseating smell of blood.
His gaze fell on the wall opposite, where an antique mirror hung in a darkened wooden frame. A shadow moved in its depths. Not his reflection. Something else.
“I know you’re here,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and alien. “Show yourself.”
The shadow in the mirror froze, as if listening. And then a quiet, melodic laugh came from the children's room. The laughter of his daughter. Masha. Who died three years ago.

Part One: Shadow in the Mirror
Artem moved to an old country house after the death of his wife Lena. The doctor called it acute reactive psychosis due to loss, prescribed pills and advised a change of scenery. Every corner of the city apartment was a reminder of the catastrophe: here is where Lena brewed her morning coffee, here is where Masha drew her childhood scribbles, here is a stain on the carpet from spilled juice.
The house in the forest was supposed to be salvation. Silence, peace, nature. The first days were heavenly. Artem read books, listened to old records found in the attic, walked for hours through the pine forest. But loneliness, like acid, slowly eroded the protective barriers of his mind.
The first sign was the smell. A faint, barely perceptible scent of Lena's perfume in the empty bedroom. Artyom attributed it to memory, to a play of the sense of smell. Then the sounds began. The clicking of heels on the parquet when he was alone. Muffled whispers from behind closed doors. He saw a quick movement out of the corner of his eye, turned around - no one.
And mirrors. He began to hate them. The world was slightly different in the reflection. Darker. Sometimes something moved in it. A tall, hunched silhouette, always remaining on the periphery of his vision. As soon as Artem turned his head to look at it point-blank, the shadow dissolved, leaving behind only a vague feeling of panic.
He stopped sleeping. Nights turned into hours-long vigils. He sat in a chair with a baseball bat on his lap and peered into the semi-darkness, catching every rustle. Fatigue drove him crazy. Reality was falling apart at the seams.
One night he saw her. Clearly. In the hallway mirror. Not a shadow, but a clear figure. Tall, unnaturally thin, with long arms whose fingers ended in dark, pointed nails. No face. In its place was only a pale, blurry oval. The creature stood directly behind him, its head cocked to one side, as if studying him.
Artyom screamed and turned around, hitting the empty space with the bat. The mirror cracked, and dozens of distorted, grinning faces were reflected for a moment in the web of cracks.
The next morning he found his old family photo on the floor near a broken mirror. The picture showed him, Lena and a smiling Masha. But Lena's face had been carefully cut out with a sharp blade.

Part Two: Faces of Madness
Horror ceased to be a phantom. It materialized. Now Artem did not just feel its presence - he saw the results of its activity.
He would wake up and all the furniture in the living room would be arranged in a perfect circle. There would be damp stains on the bedroom wall that spelled out the words, "I miss you." One day he found a dead crow with broken wings on the kitchen table, with Masha's toys neatly arranged around it.
He called the doctor, begged him to increase the dose of medication. The doctor spoke of hallucinations, of the need for hospitalization. Artem hung up. He knew that these were not hallucinations. This was something else. Ancient. Evil. It fed on his grief, his fear.
His only connection with the outside world was his neighbor, Agatha, an elderly woman who lived half a kilometer away. She brought him groceries and sometimes came over for tea. It was she who first said out loud what he was afraid to think.
“This house… it’s always been strange,” she said one day, looking at the steamed-up window. “The old family that lived here left suddenly. They said they went crazy. The children saw things. They talked about a tall shadow, whispers in the walls. They called it ‘The One Who Looks in the Corner.’”
Artem felt an icy shiver run down his spine.
"Is she here?" he asked, his voice shaking.
Agatha looked at him with her cloudy, old eyes.
- She's not in the house, dear. She's in the beholder. She is you. Your grief. Your fear. Your guilt.
That night the Horror came to him in earnest.
He woke up with the feeling of a spider crawling across his face. He screamed, brushed it off, turned on the light. On the pillow lay a photograph of Lena. The same one, with the cut-out face. And on the wall above the bed, written in something dark and damp, was one word: "GUILTY."
The air in the room thickened, became viscous and cold. From the corner, from the deepest shadow, She crawled out. Now She had a face. Lena's face. But distorted by a grimace of inhuman hatred and pain. Her eyes were empty black holes, and black resin dripped from Her mouth onto the floor.
“You killed us,” the creature croaked in a voice that mixed Lena’s voice with the screech of torn metal. “You were driving. You were distracted. You.”
Artem screamed. He screamed until he was hoarse, covering his face with his hands, trying to block out this nightmare. He felt the icy touch of long fingers on his neck.
When he came to, it was morning. The sun's rays were shining through the curtains. The room was empty. There was no writing on the wall. There was no photograph on the pillow.
But there were bruises on his neck. Five clear, dark fingerprints.

Part Three: Absorption
He finally stopped distinguishing reality from nightmare. Days and nights merged into one endless hell. He no longer tried to fight. Horror became his constant companion. It spoke to him with the voices of his dead family, showing him the scenes of the accident over and over again, in the smallest details. He saw Lena's face distorted with horror, heard Masha's last scream.
It was his fault. He knew it. He was distracted by a message on his phone. Just for a second. That second was enough.
His punishment was madness. And it was more merciful than reality.
One night he got out of bed and went into the living room. He knew what he had to do. He went to the spare gas cylinder for the stove, pulled the hose off and opened the valve. A hissing sound filled the silence.
He sat in the center of the room, waiting. He was waiting for her. His executioner. His judge.
She emerged from the darkness. Tall, thin, with the face of his wife. She approached him and extended her long, bony hand. In her fingers was a box of matches.
Artem took it. Their fingers touched. Her touch was scorchingly cold.
“Forgive me,” he breathed out hoarsely.
The creature bowed its head. A spark of something like sadness flickered in its black eye sockets for a moment. Or satisfaction.
Artem struck a match.

Epilogue
The firefighters who responded to the call from the worried Agatha found only charred ruins. The investigation established a gas leak and an accident. A lonely mentally ill man failed to handle the household appliances. Sad, but predictable.
A month later, a young couple from the city bought the plot. They dreamed of a quiet life in nature.
As movers carried a mirror in an antique frame, found at a garage sale, into the house, the woman's gaze lingered on it for a moment.
"Look, how interesting," she said to her husband. "It's as if something is moving deep down."
“It seemed so,” he smiled. “Just dust on the old glass.”
He took her hand. Their fingers intertwined. They were happy and full of hope.
There were two of them. They weren't so lonely.
And from the dark corner of the room, from the depths of a cracked mirror, they were already being watched. A tall, thin shadow was waiting for its moment. Ready to take on a new appearance. New food.
Horror never dies. It only waits.