Some legacies don’t fade—they watch, they wait, and they take.

***

Eleanor Black stepped out of the Hansom, the imposing mansion before her causing pause. She had come at the instruction of her deceased grandmother Melinda Black—or, at least, her last will and testament.

She looked at Black Manor, her task becoming more daunting as she combed the grounds. Untamed green moss crawled over its walls. Only darkness was visible through dirt-caked glass windows.

She dragged her weary feet into the decrepit structure, and found herself in a living room filled with dust-caked furniture. It was as unkempt as her mind. Cobwebs hung limply at the corners of the ceiling, with their makers staring at all who entered. 

Then there was the family portrait. It lingered in the mind, an uninvited, disturbing guest who refused to be ignored. As Eleanor took it in, it gripped her mind further–its colours were too vivid, the faces too aware. It was as if the people–the Blacks–were clinging to a history that refused to be laid to rest. Too angst-ridden. 

As Eleanor made her way through the manor, her mind drifted to the conflicts among the members of the prominent, wealthy Black family. Arguments over inheritance, recognition, sibling rivalry–each one draped a dark cloud over the portrait.

But a cloud wasn’t all—the portrait itself came to life—and not by the hands of a gifted artist. It wakened, in ominous ways, with her thoughts. Visions of the family, in heated quarrels, filled her mind. A flicker ran through the portrait—her father’s grim form vanished, as if it had never been there at all. The ink in the letters had faded, but the warnings remained. The house didn’t need ghosts—it had the portrait, a permanent resident of the mind.

Eleanor, crows feet lining the sides of her eyes, contacted the remaining Black family members to confront the truth. One by one, they arrived—Harold Black, real estate tycoon Melinda Black’s eldest son, with a cynical smirk borne of years of estrangement; Freda Black, the eldest daughter, grim-faced, with an axe to grind; and Samantha Black, the youngest daughter, long hair in a bun, in a tailored suit, ready to stand Melinda’s ground.

They raised voices; Eleanor wrung her hands. The air in the living room became thick with the scent of anger; the walls groaned when they heard. And the portrait—it bled, an eerie black gust seeping from its sides. Faces writhed, contorting in silent screams.

A shadow emerged, stepping fully into view. It wasn’t Melinda, but something older; something that fed and grew on generations of grief. And it was STARVING. It stepped forward, its mouth a gaping void, reaching out not just to touch, but to take.

One by one, Eleanor’s family members seize up, gasping. Their reflections in the portrait distort, their features melting into streaks of paint.

Eleanor had a lightbulb moment—the Black curse was not about mending ties. It was about SACRIFICE. The portrait was demanding— it wanted the family to come together. But deep discord warranted harsh punishment—it devoured.

Eleanor only had seconds to act before the painting swallowed them whole. She did as her ancestors before—extending a frail hand, she reached into the painting. The thick, wet oil clung to her fingertips as she gaped at the bleeding family members. She gave her family members a huge pull–but the painting pulled back. A force crept through her veins, dragging her limb by limb into its abyss.

The portrait let out an inhuman shriek, one that shattered Black Manor’s bones. The dining room erupted, candle wax flooding the floor like molten tears.

Eleanor lost her footing—she fell back on the floor, her energy completely drained. The portrait was still. The shadow—gone. And the Black family…..they were gasping for breath, trying to make sense of what happened.

Eleanor had restored the painting. Resurrected–albeit a single new figure.

ELEANOR.

She looked up, her breath uneven. She saw herself on the canvas.Not screaming. Not pleading. Too still. Waiting. Just waiting.

The painting had taken but also returned—at an impossible price.

Eleanor’s actions hadn’t broken the Black family curse- they had rewritten it. She had saved the family from eternal judgement—but had tethered herself to the past. She and the painting had become one—as she was, with Black Manor.

The portrait was now rendered—harmless. At least, for as long as the family didn’t quarrel.

For now, Eleanor was its guardian, and its prisoner.

Eleanor’s story became the Black family’s legend—it passed through the generations, hovering, holding everyone in petrified awe. The portrait hung permanently above the fireplace, its colors never fading.

The painting no longer changed or swallowed. But its eyes followed, patient, even kind, and…KNOWING.

It lived.

With her eyes. 

***

What listens when no one speaks?
What follows when no one is there?

Mirrors of the Mind gathers five unsettling stories of obsession, inheritance, and the unseen forces that shape us. Set across abandoned spaces, quiet homes, and shadowed histories, each piece invites the reader to look a little closer — and perhaps, a little too long.

Now available.

A young architect enters a house untouched by time, where memory takes form and refuses to fade.

Rain played favourites with the houses on Buxton street–it only reached  Number Eleven. While the rest basked in the sun, Number Eleven stood beneath its shroud of thunderclouds.

Number Eleven had been left unoccupied since 1997. It was a house not haunted by ghosts–but by selective rain and painful memory. Elara Chung’s drafting paper crinkled, as if missing something within that it should capture. 

***

She stepped onto the patio, its wood dampened by raindrops, each encased by a misshapen rainbow. She touched one–and heard a familiar voice. One that carved her name too skillfully. 

Her mother.

***

Elara entered the home, cloaked by her protective gear. The interior remained unchanged through time–half-eaten meals, ticking clocks, photo frames with missing faces. The rain never came in, but the echoes followed her.

The walls seemed to remember her better than she did. The sound of a lullaby–her favorite from her childhood–ghost notes humming in her ears. Her mother–alive and speaking–moved within the glass shards of a cracked mirror. Elara recalled her, sick and dying in a hospital bed, her five-year-old self drenched in tears. The shade of lipstick the woman in the glass wore was —blood rouge. 

Then a figure replaced her mother, formed by grief-soaked residue. It seemed to speak with a dissonant, hurtful echo, reaching forward with an out-of-sync welcome. Not wanting to harm–it wanted to BE her.

***

Then, the echo of her nickname, in a childlike voice, pulling her to the basement. The steps creaked wanly beneath her weight, each foot fall seeming heavier.

Standing in the corner was a full-length mirror, glass encased in an ornate frame, the gold glinting at her as if it had caught her misbehaving. Then, she looked in the glass.

At herself. Blank-eyed. Unmoving. In the glass panels of a cupboard nearby was another, smaller version, its eyes just as vacant. And in a small glass window, yet another, eyes unblinking, wide, its mouth in a thin, straight line.

She looked at love donning loss like a costume.

It spoke, but not in her voice.

Her mother’s resounded across the basement. “Come with me.” The ghostly invitation was a petrifying echo. “Come with me. We can live together, in here, forever.”

The pull towards the glass was strong. And the louder the mimic’s cry, the greater it was. The mimic related things that only she and her mother would know.

“Grandpa bought you that dress in the box when you were only two. And that clock? You remember that. Dad bought it for you because you refused to get up for school.”

Truth flickered in the glass—she was both the daughter and the soul to keep.

***

The young architect backed away from the mirror, her mind tangled in tragic recollections and grief–

Grief that was grabbing her in its choke hold; that she didn’t know how to wrangle free from. Her panicked mind tussled between fear, survival and tears.

It hit her, abruptly and quickly. Purging the distended memories was freedom. Her eyes caught sight of leather bound journals, perched behind the mirrors, their soft voices a disturbing invitation for her to open them.

She grabbed them and threw them hastily in a box. Hauling them to the backyard, she lit a match, fingers trembling.

The books ignited, each disintegrating with a hollow sob. Inside the room, the mimic in the mirror collapsed on herself, becoming a soft puddle of clear water.

The house greeted Elara next April, silent–not petrifying, but poignantly vacant. The only sound she could hear was the echo of the soft breeze blowing through the empty hall.

She never forgot her mother. But she let her mother’s memory stroll beside her instead of dragging it behind. She never redesigned the house—she allowed the truths within to fade.

***

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Some exhibits don’t need feeding. They just need you.Some exhibits don’t need feeding. They just need you.

🔑🗝️🚪🌑🐒🩸👁️‍🗨️🗣️🔒

By all accounts, Eli Lim loved his new job as head groundskeeper of the Whispering Pines Zoological Reserve. It suited him to perfection –there were no questions. No voices.No witnesses. Just cages and animals

But something felt—off. The security cameras around the zoo clicked. Clicked again. Buzzed. Buzzed and buzzed. Then spat static, vigourosly. They seemed to resist, then release.

He kept an eye on the cages. They watched him. 

Exhibit E? Off limits. 

The management  told him never to feed the exhibit, but never told him what it was.

The enclosure lay under Darkness’ cloak–one that shrouded curses and beings which only appeared then. Eli never stepped into it–he had no reason to.

Until the sounds began. He patrolled the grounds dutifully each night, with the ravenous animals looking forward to his rounds—and their feeds. Then came the scratching. Then, odd screeching.

Then, dissonant howling.

Meat deliveries that he received each week weren’t…in sync. They came at the wrong time, on the wrong day.

Eli had more than a few burning questions for his manager. She looked up at him as he walked through the door, greeting him with her usual friendly aplomb.

“Eli! What brings you to the catacombs?” She sounded the first syllable with relish.

Eli demurred—he didn’t need his colleagues to think of him as quirky. “Hi Rita. I was hoping that you’ll be able to tell me what’s happening with Exhibit E.”

Her smile slowly faded. “Oh. That doesn’t need feeding–it feeds itself. Do you need help with the other animals?”‘

An adroit change of subject. The other archive staff judiciously avoided eye contact. The shelves leaned forward, listening keenly. 

Well, The Lord helps those who help themselves, he thought. He browsed the archive shelves for a few much-needed answers.

Until he came across a door. A sentry. Bolted.

A faint knock. Faint. Rhythmic. Patient. 

The sounds increased in capacity—more murmuring, more twittering–and volume. The river of cacophony drove the usually stoic Eli to finally break protocol.

It drew him in on one of his routine patrols.

And he unlocked the exhibit.

All was quiet and dark. Then the murmuring began again–and rose to become a tsunami of noises that flooded the mind. 

Covering his ears, he stumbled through the exhibit, almost crashing to the floor.

In front of a pale figure. With a name tag–Night Keeper Miguel S. In a tattered zoo keeper’s attire

He raised his lowered head to meet Eli’s gaze–one with dried blood that had once streamed down its sides.

He was what happened to keepers who asked too many questions–no longer a keeper.

He stared at Eli with pleading hollows–not eyes.

“The keys….cages…”

Its bloodshot gaze fell on Eli, shifting —not from fear, but to tell Eli something.

To warn.

Eli turned to run–but a hail of lights greeted him. The other keepers had arrived.

Calm. Ready.

But Eli—Eli was ready too.

And this time, he wasn’t just holding keys. 

He gripped them harder. The cages answered. 

Eli roamed the enclosures, shepherding monkeys that refused to return to their places in the treetops.

The zoo had new exhibits–Exhibit A wasn’t off limits, but always growled:

“I won’t entertain!”

Exhibit B would greet the hoards of tourists who came in tattered pants and a torn shirt, peeking from the trees.

No longer nightkeepers–but on show.

🔑🗝️🚪🌑🐒🩸👁️‍🗨️🗣️🔒

Original story by Michelle Liew Tsui- Lin AI tags are coincidental.

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Love stays, even when illusions don’t.

🐾🌅🐾🌙🐾🌅🐾🌙🐾

Peter was quiet. He often kept to himself, but I knew that he carried something heavy in his heart. He never said what it was, but I could feel it; it was a shadow that followed him wherever he went. I wish I could chase it away for him.

I was his second pair of eyes. A nose that smelt what he couldn’t. Ears that heard the creaks behind doors that he couldn’t.

Then something began to change. I started to act funny. I knew that something was off; my tail refused to wag when I asked it to. I barked at the attic door–I just knew something was hidden. I could almost sink my teeth into it. I knew that Peter was ready to find it.

But he didn’t believe me. To him, I was just his dog–something to feed and pat, that he was responsible for. But I could see the way his eyes flickered when I nudged the drawer open. I knew I was getting to him.

He opened the drawer, and his face changed–I could see the utter surprise, the confusion. The locket his mother always wore. It was there, but it was empty. Broken. He held it in his hands. It had always been shattered, vacant. But a piece of his mother. His fingers brushed it, as though it had been waiting for a forgotten truth.

As he continued fumbling through the drawer, his fingers brushed against a simple, but curious box. Nondescript as it was, it was compelling–he picked it open with a nearby pin.

In it was a series of old photos and documents. As the photos spilled out, his face lost its colour. Each one was a silent accusation, showing Peter the father he barely knew–the older man tangled in a web of lies that shattered lives.

She had been a lady his mother had known all her life. Her confidante. They had been together when his mother was at work, unable to give his father the attention he needed, even when I was around.

Peter wasn’t the same after looking through those photographs. I could tell from the way he patted me, or walked me around the block–he just seemed–distracted.

Now, he doesn’t grip the leash so tightly. He still looks at his father’s photos, but at a man he never really knew. He’s hurt. But petting me is therapy. I could never use words–I only had my eyes, ears, and nose.

I never asked for thanks, but just being by his side helped him to face what he needed to. I was there through all the silence and pain.

His partner.

We’re watching the sunset from our backyard – me, with my head on Peter’s lap. He’s putting on his thinking cap — probably wondering why he never noticed the obvious.

Me? I only notice the well-deserved treats.

After all, I showed him that loving without strings means being there. The truth sits in the drawer, no longer a shadow, even if it’s not so tidy.

🐾🌅🐾🌙🐾🌅🐾🌙🐾

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🕯️📖🌒🖋️👁️‍🗨️💀🌩️📜🕯️

Edwin Chong. Once a celebrated novelist, now a near-silent shadow. He had retreated into his reclusive world of darkness and words. His once-strong body denied him daily now, each breath he took heavier than the last.

A dilapidated house on the outskirts of town kept him within its dark walls. Once a beautiful rosewood writer’s den, it was filled with ageing manuscripts, the bated breath of horror novels, and the cloying scent of nostalgia.

The crime writer simply couldn’t put pen to paper; inspiration wouldn’t flow, and neither would his words. He penned fewer and fewer novels; orders for them eventually disappeared. He became lost in the cobwebs of his mind, his thoughts becoming tangled with a dark notion- to write his death- was a way of rewriting his life.

The opportunity for him to recreate himself–his life–came one day in the form of a letter. Untitled, anonymous. The words crept beneath his skin- details of the symptoms of the sickness he was experiencing, down to a T. Symptoms no one knew anything about. In it was the ominous refrain:

“Recraft your ending to know what ails you.”

There was nothing to do but follow the cryptic directive. Struggling with his mental health, Edwin began to pen a novel–one where the protagonist died in mysterious circumstances.

As the novel took shape, the events followed. What he put on paper…

Manifested.

The first of the stories he wrote after receiving the letter was about a shadowy stalker who lurked outside his home. Soon after publication, a mysterious figure appeared outside his window.

The protagonist became consumed by a fatal illness. Edwin himself experienced symptoms similar to those he wrote about.

In one more, his protagonist came across an obituary of himself in the newspaper. He nearly gagged on his coffee when he saw one of his own in the Nation Times.

Things came to a head when he received a voluminous manuscript – over 50 pages that he had no recollection of–foretelling his death in bone-chilling detail.

Margaret, his long-absent sister, dropped in for an unexpected visit.

“Edwin, you know we love your writing. But writing your own death seems—unnecessary. Morbid.”

With a shrug of his shoulders, Edwin turned away, dismissing her words. Uneasy, she turned to an old family friend and detective, Rowan Lee.

He watched Edwin’s home discreetly — confrontation would only hinder. The stalker, obituary and manuscript—were eerie, but trivial enough to be mere coincidences.

As the novelist’s health continued its accelerating decline, the disease became a part of the story he was penning. Struggling with a myriad of thoughts in his head, he became convinced that his illness was part of his story–the line between fiction and death had become blurred.

The manuscript lay before him, the ink glistening as though freshly spilled. Except that he had not raised his pen in hours.

Driven by desperation, he penned his own death scene, as though the words themselves could free him from his fate. As his heart palpitated, the storm outside mirrored its rhythm. His reality had an uncanny echo.

Lightning flashed outside his window, illuminating his reflection–he was a gaunt ghost of his former self. The walls caved in, and the air became dense with the scent of old paper and something else. Something that signaled the end.

His heart hammered wildly, each throbbing beat a toll of the inevitable.

A whisper sounded from the unseen: “You wrote this.”

The clock struck midnight, and with it, Edwin Chong drew his last breath. He passed, exactly as he himself described, in circumstances that would turn one’s skin into a field of goosebumps.

Including Detective Rowan Lee. As he reviewed, he blinked.

His scepticism came apart as he put together the details of Edwin’s death. Each moment of his investigation advanced the horror story.

He had no choice but to leave the case open. He wondered–did Edwin lead himself into an early grave, or had fate intervened in the cruellest way possible?

As Edwin’s sister, Margaret, read her brother’s final words, she wondered: Had her brother created his own fate, or had it created him?

A few days later, another letter arrived, as if in answer:

“Edwin’s story is but a short chapter in a tale yet to be told.”

🕯️📖🌒🖋️👁️‍🗨️💀🌩️📜🕯️

Original story by Michelle Liew Tsui Lin

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Feelings return to those who own them.

🧠💼📄📄📄

They pay me to feel. 

This is my work. 

They hire me. 

So they feel nothing. 

I take what they avoid. 

😐➡️😶

They pay me. 

I grieve at funerals. 

I take on their denial. 

Their stress is mine. 

Assignment. 

Remorse. Anger. Fear. Regret. 

😐➡️😶

But work ends. 

My feelings do not. 

They overlap. 

Theirs and mine.

I cannot tell.

And I strain.

💔💔💔💔

No more real feelings. 

No one feels either. 

Not anymore. 

I was hired to feel love.

I was hired to feel remorse.

 I don’t know what to feel.

But they know again.

😐➡️😶

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Functioning is not the same as living.

🚶‍♀️🧹🛏️🔁⚙️😐💭🕳️💔

Not sitting, still walking.

Not lazing, still moving.

Not sleeping, still rising.

Functional, and fine.

🚶‍♀️🧹🛏️🔁⚙️😐💭🕳️💔

I still walk the dog,

I still clean the floor.

I still make the bed.

Still functioning –

Fine.

🚶‍♀️🧹🛏️🔁⚙️😐💭🕳️💔

But I stand, yet slip.

Move, yet delay.

Speak – yet pause.

Still functioning.

Not feeling.

🚶‍♀️🧹🛏️🔁⚙️😐💭🕳️💔

Still standing.

Still moving.

Still functioning –

Not fine.

🚶‍♀️🧹🛏️🔁⚙️😐💭🕳️💔

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Today is Tomb Sweeping Day, a day to mark by remembering ancestors.

People remember the lessons from loved ones who have passed.

Some lessons only make sense when they are meant for you.

🧽🔥🍊

Dusting the gravestone

Wiping sweat, dripping off cheek

As incense burns.

Cleaning, tidying.

Cleaning, tidying.

Glancing at the digital clock –

On his mobile phone.

🧽🔥🍊

Dusting, sweeping.

Dusting, sweeping.

Arranging offerings with no glance.

Lights incense –

Without seeing

Father’s name.

🧽🔥🍊

Tidying, moving. Tidying, moving.

The next gravestone.

“Whose is it’

Mom answers –

Meant for you.

🧽🔥🍊

Tidying.

Dusting.

Tidying.

Dusting.

Cloth wipes. Stone gleams.

Offers.

Himself.

🧽🔥🍊

Original story by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.

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We celebrate World Back Up day.

A day when we cherish what e nearly discard

Sometimes backups serve us well.

🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸

Brown the teddy bear was –

Alarmed.

He wasn’t as us functional as before. His usage had declined drastically. The children didn’t need him as much.

It was clear that he was no longer top of the line. Popular online games were designed for attention.

Faster. Stronger.

He lacked flashiness – inefficient compared with Super Mario and Luigi. Mario sprang. He –

Ambled.

His responses were delayed.

But he wasn’t being discarded –

Yet.

🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸

It was time for a major upgrade. He needed arms that hugged on command. He had to have them positioned at an optimal angle.

That was against the flaccid toy’s protocol.

The current generation of children expected instant results.The response time had to be immediate.

He flexed his soft, furry arms.

Again.

And again.

Failure was not an option.

🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸

Brown put his plan into motion.

He placed himself on the little boy’s favorite pillow. The child had first seen him on it. He had to be aligned at eye level.

Within reach.

The adjustments were backbreaking – and he hadn’t much of a back. He stepped back, finally satisfied. The soft toy examined his handiwork.

That should suffice.

The child approached. His hand extended.

Contact was made.

Finally.

🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸

They touched. Paused. Touched. Paused.

Touched.

Paused.

Almost met.

No response followed. The sequence was incomplete. No continuation. Nothing sustained.

Brown flexed his soft arms.

Again.

Reached.

Again.

The child’s hand retreated  then set aside. His attention shifted to Mario, now juming over flames in World 8.

🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸

The teddy waited. Patience was in order. 

The child eventually returned.

He had been found. Picked up from the trash.

Brown stayed on the pillow.

The child reached.

Again.

They touched.

Again.

Within reach. Without Mario.

🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸🧸

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