Three days later, Harper had claimed the library as her favorite room. While Silas worked in his study, surrounded by spreadsheets and investment reports, and the construction crew updated the kitchen with modern appliances that seemed strangely out of place in the century old house, she’d curl up in the big leather chair and lose herself in stories about children who were brave enough to save the day.
The chair was massive, clearly built for adults, but Harper had discovered that if she pulled her knees up and tucked herself into the corner, it became the perfect hiding spot, somewhere she could observe without being observed. Mrs. Eloise. Maddox had become her favorite person in the house almost immediately.
At 70, she moved with the careful grace of someone who had spent decades keeping important things safe. Her silver hair was always perfectly pinned in a style that belonged to an earlier era, and her eyes held the kind of warmth that made Harper feel like she belonged somewhere for the first time in her memory. Unlike the social workers and foster, parents who had moved through Harper’s life with professional kindness, Mrs. Maddox looked at her as if she genuinely mattered, as if her thoughts and feelings were worth hearing.
The Bennett family has lived here for over a hundred years, Mrs. Maddox was explaining as she dusted the tall mirror that dominated the far wall of the library. Her movements were methodical, reverent, the way someone might tend to a shrine. Your new father’s great-great-grandfather built this room specifically for his book collection.
He was quite the scholar, from what I understand. Loved first editions and rare manuscripts. Some of these books haven’t been opened in decades.
The mirror itself was remarkable, nearly eight feet tall and framed in carved mahogany that depicted intricate scenes of birds and flowers. Harper had been fascinated by it since her first day in the library, the way it seemed to watch everything that happened in the room, reflecting not just images but somehow capturing the very essence of the space. Sometimes, when the afternoon, light hit it just right, she could swear she saw shadows moving in its depths that didn’t match the shadows in the room.
Harper was only half listening to Mrs. Maddox’s historical lecture. She was playing a private game of hide-and-seek, imagining where she would hide if she needed to disappear quickly. It was an old habit from her orphanage days, when knowing the escape routes had sometimes meant the difference between safety and trouble.
The heavy curtains that hung beside the tall windows, the space behind the antique globe that stood on its own pedestal, the narrow gap between two bookcases that seemed designed for someone exactly her size. That’s when she heard a click, a soft mechanical sound that seemed to come from inside the wall itself, from somewhere behind the mirror. Harper’s head snapped up, her game forgotten.
Mrs. Maddox was still talking about leather-bound first editions and the importance of proper book preservation, but Harper’s entire focus had narrowed to that one spot behind the mirror, her senses, suddenly sharp with the kind of alertness that had kept her safe in uncertain situations. Click. There it was again, deliberate, intentional, like a lock turning, or a latch being released.
Not the random settling sounds that old houses made, but something purposeful, something that suggested hidden mechanisms and secret purposes. Harper slipped from her chair and approached the mirror, her bare feet silent on the Persian rug. Her reflection looked small and uncertain against the ornate frame, her light brown curls catching the afternoon light that streamed through the tall windows.
But her eyes were bright with curiosity, and something else. A growing certainty that she was on the verge of discovering something important. She pressed her ear to the glass, feeling the cool surface against her skin, then to the wall beside it where the sound seemed to originate.
Click. Click. The sounds were definitely coming from behind the wall, rhythmic and deliberate.
Harper’s heart began to race with excitement and a little fear. In her experience, hidden things were usually hidden for good reasons. Mrs. Maddox, Harper whispered, not wanting to break whatever spell was happening, afraid that speaking too loudly might make the sound stop.
Yes, dear? Can mirrors have doors behind them? The older woman’s face went pale, all the color draining from her cheeks as if Harper had said something terrible. The dust cloth fell from her hands and fluttered to the floor like a wounded bird. What did you say? I heard clicking.
Like, like a door opening and closing. Or maybe a lock. Mrs. Maddox set down her cleaning supplies with shaking hands, her movement suddenly uncertain.
Harper, I think you should… Harper, Silas’s voice boomed from the doorway, cutting through the afternoon quiet like a thundercrack. He’d clearly been running, his perfect composure finally cracked, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled. His tie was askew and there was something in his eyes that Harper had never seen before, genuine panic.
What are you doing? There’s something behind the mirror, Harper said, her voice small but certain, carrying the conviction of someone who had learned to trust her instincts above all else. I heard it clicking. Silas looked at Mrs. Maddox, who nodded slowly, her face grave.
She’s right, Mr. Bennett. The child has sharp ears. For a long moment, nobody moved.
The library felt frozen in time, dust motes suspended in the afternoon, light, the air itself holding its breath. Then Silas walked slowly to the mirror, his businessman’s confidence replaced by something Harper had never seen before, genuine fear mixed with a terrible kind of recognition. Help me move this, he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Together, he and Mrs. Maddox carefully lifted the heavy mirror away from the wall. It took both of them working in careful coordination, the mirror clearly much heavier than it appeared. Harper held her breath as they set it aside, revealing what lay behind.
Harper gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Behind the mirror was a wooden door, old and worn, crafted from dark wood that had aged to the color of midnight. It had an antique, brass handle that caught the light and looked like it had been turned recently.
There were no cobwebs, no dust, just the dull gleam of metal that had seen recent use. The wood around the lock was lighter than the rest as if someone had been working to keep it functional, oiling hinges and cleaning mechanisms. This wasn’t some forgotten relic.
This was a door that someone had been maintaining. Silas stared at the door, his face white as paper. This isn’t on any of the houseplants.
No, sir, Mrs. Maddox said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of years of unspoken knowledge. It wouldn’t be. Harper stepped closer, her heart pounding with excitement and terror in equal measure.
She’d found her first real secret, and from the look on Silas’s face the fear in Mrs. Maddox’s eyes, it was bigger and more dangerous than she’d imagined. There’s a door behind the mirror, she whispered, just as she had in her dreams for the past three nights. The morning mist clung to the windows of the Bennett Mansion like whispered secrets refusing to let go.