Free Bones and Ashes by Gemma Holden

second door led into the dining room. There was something wrong with the house. There was no clutter, no pictures or ornaments. The last door led into the library; at least she assumed it was a library. The bookcases were all bare. A huge mahogany desk dominated the room. She pulled out the drawers hoping to find some papers belonging to Matherson, but they were all empty. A thick black cloth concealed a large shape hanging on the wall facing the desk. She pulled the cover off, expecting to find a portrait. Instead, the cloth fell away to reveal a large rectangular mirror.
    It had gone quiet. She could no longer hear Aren. She moved to the door. She frowned and stopped. She turned around slowly to face the mirror. Her reflection hadn’t moved. In the mirror, she was still standing in front of the desk. Raiden walked back to the middle of the room. Her reflection tilted her head to one side. She appeared to be studying her. Raiden didn’t understand. The girl in the mirror looked like her, but it wasn’t her. And her eyes… In the mirror they weren’t green; they were black. Entirely black.
    Her reflection smiled at her, but there was a cruel look in her eyes. Raiden stepped back until she felt the desk bump against the back of her legs. The girl in the mirror moved closer.
    Raiden heard a thump. She spun around, but there was no one there. She turned back. Her reflection was back where it should be with green eyes.
    She walked slowly up to the mirror. Had she imagined it? It could be a magic mirror. There were no runes or symbols around the frame, but it seemed old. She felt uneasy, as if she was being watched. She moved to the side so the mirror couldn’t see her. She would have to walk past it to get to the door.
    She was about to run past, when she felt a coldness on the back of her neck.
    She turned around.
    A ghost stood behind her. She assumed it was James Matherson. He didn’t move. He stood frozen, staring at her. He was a slight man, a few inches shorter than her, with thinning brown hair and watery blue eyes. His suit was too big for him. The jacket hung almost to his knees and the sleeves reached past his wrists.
    He reached out a hand as though to touch her hair. She backed away. His face had a hawkish look to it. He was transparent. All ghosts appeared faded, but he was almost completely white. He didn’t appear confused or upset. He watched her with predatory eyes, his gaze darting up and down her dress. 
    She backed up slowly toward the door. “Aren,” she called softly. There was no answer. “Aren!”
    The ghost followed her. His legs didn’t move, instead he flowed across the floor. New ghosts forgot they had to move their legs to make it look like they were walking.
    She stepped back into the hallway and pulled the door shut in his face. He had only been dead a week; he couldn’t have worked out how to walk through walls yet. 
    “Aren,” she shouted up the stairs. There was still no answer. She couldn’t leave without him. She ran up the stairs. On the landing were four doors. One door stood ajar. “Aren,” she called as she pushed it open. The curtains were drawn. In the dim light, she could just make out the burnt remains of a narrow four poster bed. The remnants of the drapes hung down like ghostly fingers. On the dressing table was a lamp and a huge porcelain vase filled with dead flowers. The white floral wallpaper was blackened and she could smell smoke.
    This was where Matherson had died.
    A full length mirror stood in the centre of the room. The elaborate golden frame curved outwards in the middle before narrowing. The mirror was broken. It had been shattered into hundreds of pieces and then carefully pieced back together. It was almost complete except for one last missing piece near the centre; a small jagged teardrop shape, two fingers wide. 
    A groan came from the side of the bed. Raiden rushed round the mirror. Aren lay slumped on the floor, his eyes closed. She shook him.