Photo by Ellen Tanner on Unsplash

“Museum of Mirrors? Seriously?”

Grant looked from his boyfriend to the sign and back. Terry merely grinned and said, “I’m sick of cornfields. We’ve been driving for nine hours. And this place looks a lot more interesting than I-70.”

Grant rolled his eyes but followed Terry into the one-story building. It was barely bigger than their St. Louis apartment. How many different mirrors could there—

Both men froze in place at the sight before them. There seemed to be well over a hundred reflective surfaces staring back at them, and it creeped Grant out to no end.

Gilded frames, plastic frames, platinum frames.

Polished mirrors, dull mirrors, transparent mirrors.

(He absolutely could not make that last one make sense.)

Terry was the first to move. A clear path was to their left with words stenciled below a thick yellow line: START HERE.

They stopped at each frame, and–despite Creep Level 9000–admired each piece. Small index cards listed the object’s creation date, first owner, and how many hands it has passed through before arriving in this particular museum. Some of them were nearly 500 years old.

Near the end of the self-guided tour, when they’d almost circled back around to their starting point, Grant felt a shove against his left shoulder and bumped into a small circular mirror.

“What the fu—”

Terry watched in horror as the stand it was mounted to tipped precariously to the left. Before he could even think to reach out to stop its downward momentum, the mirror hit the ground and shattered.

“Oh, shit,” Grant mumbled, “That was…one of the oldest ones in here.”

A sudden gust of cold air burst down the walkway, and Terry was pushed back into his boyfriend. He felt like ice had replaced his entire blood supply.

“What was that?” Grant gasped behind him, dread filling him. Spectral sounds started to echo from each mirror, a cacophony of both despair and rage.

“Let’s get outta here,” Terry said rushing for the exit, “We’ll call in the morning to see how much we—”

A black ooze-covered hand snapped out of the mirror to Terry’s left, yanking him into its depths. Grant tried to call out his boyfriend’s name, but a searing pain lashed around his neck. He was yanked back in the opposite direction. Blackness surrounded him.

The sounds in the museum muted immediately. A bone-thin man with oily golden hair dressed in a baggy black three-piece suit appeared from the back of the room. With a mischievous smirk and a wave of his hand, the smashed mirror reknitted itself and eased back into its standing position.

“Good job, my dear. That should hold them over for another few months.”

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