Sometime in the late 1970s, amidst the decaying grandeur of a once-proud Victorian mansion in New England, lived the reclusive Edgar Hawthorne. The house, long abandoned by its original owners, creaked and groaned under the weight of time and neglect. One evening, as Edgar explored the labyrinthine corridors with his flickering candle, he stumbled upon an antique mirror, its silvered surface tarnished by age. Intrigued, he carried it to his chambers, drawn to its eerie allure. That night, under the moon’s cold gaze, Edgar gazed into the mirror. His reflection seemed… wrong. Twisted, grotesque, it snarled back at him with eyes not his own. A shiver ran down his spine, and he felt an inexplicable compulsion to return to the mirror each night. His obsession grew. He saw things in the glass – a spectral figure, its face obscured by shadows. It beckoned, whispered. Edgar found himself unable to resist its siren call. One fateful night, as he leaned closer, the reflection’s eyes widened, and it lunged at him. A cold, unseen force gripped his heart, and he crumpled to the floor, lifeless. The mirror shattered, releasing an icy chill that swept through the room before dissipating into the night. In the stillness of death, Edgar’s body lay frozen in time, his eyes wide open, forever locked on the empty frame where once had hung the haunted mirror.