The real Ronette beside me grabbed my arm in terror. "Louis… what the hell is that?"
I stared at the imposter. "Your evil twin has better dance moves."
Maria turned, and smiled at us.
I took a step back.
"She has one creepy smile," I muttered.
Ronette's voice cracked. "That's not my sweet Maria. Look at her eyes. Her beautiful, radiant eyes… they look like dead fish now."
I narrowed my eyes at Maria.
'Hmm… doesn't seem natural.'
"Is she being controlled?"
Ronette squeaked. "Really? Then we have to save her!"
"Of course we have to. And I've got a plan."
Ronette paled again.
I pinched his cheek. "Golly, you're white as a ghost again. You need more iron in your diet."
Ronette groaned. "I don't think the problem is iron deficiency, Louis…"
I placed a finger gently on Ronette's lips. "Wait. If we go in loud, we lose the element of surprise."
He stared at me, voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Are we sneaking up on my evil twin? Because that thing is waltzing like it eats children for brunch."
"Exactly," I said, narrowing my eyes. "Which is why we'll outwit it using the most powerful weapon known to man."
Ronette blinked. "Stealth?"
"No," I whispered back. "Improvised theatre."
He groaned. "Louis—"
But I was already fishing in my coat pocket, producing a frilly shawl I'd stuffed in there earlier. Don't ask why. Some things are just meant to be.
I draped it dramatically over Ronette's head like a bonnet.
He flailed. "What—why do you even have this?!"
"Focus. You're a noble duchess, trapped in a cursed mirror realm. I'm your long-lost heir, returned from exile to reclaim my birthright and your antique tea set."
He gaped at me in disbelief.
Then, with the wide-eyed sincerity of a toddler on stage, he tilted his head and said, "But I don't have an antique tea set."
"It's make-believe, Ronette."
"Oh," he said, forming his mouth into a thoughtful 'O'.
I straightened my collar, stepping into character. "When we approach, curtsy like your life depends on it. Distract the evil you. I'll grab Maria."
"You're insane," he muttered.
"I've accepted that," I said with a grin.
And with that, we marched—no, glided—into the ballroom like two dramatic side characters from a third-rate soap opera set in a haunted opera house.
"Ah, Lady Claribelle!" I cried in a tragic falsetto. "I knew I'd find you here, in this twisted dream of mirrors and despair!"
To his credit, Ronette executed a surprisingly graceful curtsy and wailed, "Oh, nephew of mine! You've returned—with… the wrong shoes, but still!"
The doppelgänger froze mid-twirl. Its head tilted at an unnatural angle, like a crow trying to decode punchlines in a language it didn't speak.
Maria blinked—distracted. That was my opening.
I crept closer.
"Who… dares interrupt my eternal pas de deux?" the false Ronette intoned, its voice syrupy, staticky, and hollow all at once.
"Excuse us, darling," I said with a theatrical bow. "Just passing through your cursed dimension on urgent family business. We'll be out of your hair in no time."
As the creature struggled to process the nonsense of our presence, I lunged.
"You're at the wrong ball, Cinderella," I hissed. Then I jabbed a finger toward the thing wearing Ronette's face. "…Because that—is no prince."
Maria blinked again—slower this time, clearer. A sliver of recognition flickered in her eyes. "...?"
The mirror-Ronette let out a shriek that fractured like glass, devolving into a chorus of insectile clicks, high and unnatural.
"RUN!" I screamed, dragging Maria toward the nearest exit beneath the sagging, wax-dripping chandelier.
Behind me, Ronette ripped off his makeshift bonnet and shouted, "That's it! No more theatre!"
We sprinted. Almost made it.
Then—CLANG!
An iron bar dropped from above, slamming across the archway, sealing the exit with brutal finality.
"What—no! That's cheating!" I whirled, breath ragged, as a dense fog began to pour in from the floor, thick and serpentine. It swallowed our ankles, rising fast, swirling like spectral hands reaching up to drag us under.
"What is it with cursed places and fog?" I shouted into the gloom. "Is it a theme? Some kind of supernatural interior design choice?!"
"L-Louis…" Ronette's voice was tight, barely audible. He clutched my arm with frozen fingers. "Look—look ahead."
I turned.
Shapes were forming in the mist.
Three silhouettes.
Still as tombstones. Sharp against the haze. Just standing there.
Watching.
The air grew colder.
Each figure radiated dread so pure it was like breathing in despair.
The first figure stepped forward—and my heart plummeted.
Mr. Woo.
Impossibly tall, immaculately dressed, his eyes gleamed like scorched paper, and his posture radiated the judgment of a thousand detention slips. His silhouette alone made my stomach twist with the guilt of crimes I hadn't even committed.
The second figure lurched into view—towering, hunched, with far too many legs and tufts of wiry hair sprouting from every joint. Its limbs moved in ways no creature should.
Ronette whimpered behind me. "Big spider. Big, big spider."
And the third—oh, the third—stood unnaturally still. Gaunt and draped in an aura of shadow, its head tilted just slightly, just wrong enough to make your breath catch. It exuded the weight of nightmares—the kind that linger even after sunrise.
Maria stepped back, her voice barely a breath. "The Whisper Man…"
Ronette leaned toward me, whispering like a kid tattling on the ghost hiding under his bed. "Okay, I think that's the Whisper Man," he said, pointing helpfully at the nightmare figure. "But… who's that?"
He jabbed a finger toward Mr. Woo.
I exhaled slowly, as if releasing years of repressed academic trauma. "That's Mr. Woo. He's a demon."
"A—A d-demon?!" Ronette squeaked, his voice breaking like a violin string pulled too tight.
"Not a real demon," I muttered. "Just… the kind that materializes when you break school rules. Eyes like burning exam papers. Voice like the sound of impending parent-teacher conferences. The sort that makes you confess to crimes you didn't even think about committing."
Ronette tilted his head in pure, unspoiled confusion—like a lamb who had never been late to class, never forged a signature, never hidden a failed test under a mattress.
I looked at him.
And gave up.
"Never mind."
But inside, a bitter echo whispered through the hollow corridors of my chest:
'So it was only me…'
I turned to Ronette and placed a dramatic hand on his shoulder, eyes aglow with theatrical purpose.
"Okay, my sweet Ronette. Are you ready?"
Ronette instinctively took a step back, eyes narrowing. 'Uh-oh. She called me 'Ronette.' She's definitely up to something again.'
He blinked warily. "For what?"
"To kick some butt."
Ronette didn't hesitate. "Absolutely not."
I grinned, undeterred. "It's okay, Ronette. Because by the end of all this, 'Ready' will be our middle name."
"I thought 'Ominous' was our middle name."
"Details, darling. Don't sweat the details."
Ronette whimpered like a man watching his own eulogy in real time.
I turned back to the three nightmares looming ahead, lifting my arms in an overly grandiose gesture. "We shall face our fears and triumph! So…!" I spun, pointing dramatically at the horrors before us. "You, my dearest protagonist, shall smite these terrors, and we—your loyal sidekicks—shall stand behind you, cheering with great enthusiasm."
Ronette stared at me, horror creeping up his face. "What happened to you facing your fear?"
"We are! Together! As a team!"
"…What?"
"You're the front-line attacker. We're the back-line supporters. Providing moral reinforcement. Healing your fragile mental state."
"That's not a strategy," he deadpanned.
"Of course it is."
"No, it's not! If we're doing the whole 'face your fear' thing, then you should be going after Mr. Woo!"
I stiffened.
Then smiled sweetly.
"He's not my fear, my love," I said, voice lowering like the calm before a very personal apocalypse.
Ronette's brow furrowed. "He's not?"
"He's my death."
The words dropped like a stone into the silence between us.
Ronette stared at me, flat and unimpressed.
I sighed, shoulders sagging. "Fine, fine, fine. We'll face our fears. Happy?"
He nodded grimly, while behind him, the fog shifted.
I muttered under my breath, "This better come with a post-trauma snack buffet."
The fog coiled tighter around us as the silhouettes advanced—gliding forward like they'd been waiting centuries just to ruin our day. Mr. Woo cracked his phantom knuckles with a sound that could make homework catch fire. The giant spider clicked its fangs, each twitch like a ticking clock. And the Whisper Man… just loomed, silent and dreadful.
'Rude much.'
I cracked my own knuckles in defiance. 'The sound was… pitiful. Like stepping on a soft pretzel.'
"Alright," I declared, squaring my shoulders. "Ronette, I'll take Mr. Woo. You distract the spider."
Ronette's voice cracked. "How?! Offer it tea?!"
"Pretend to be a fly. You're great at panicking."
He shot me a look of betrayal before darting off in a series of zigzags, arms flailing like inflatable tube men. The spider, as if delighted by the challenge, scuttled after him with far too many legs and far too much enthusiasm.
I turned my focus back to Mr. Woo and lunged, aiming a fist straight for his stern, spectral face.
My hand passed clean through.
It felt like plunging into chilled mist—clammy, weightless, wrong.
I stumbled back a few steps, teeth clenched, and jabbed an accusatory finger at him. "I knew it! You're a ghost demon! You never made a sound when sneaking up on people. Just… appeared behind them. Like a tax deadline. Or a pop quiz."
Mr. Woo lifted one translucent hand and wagged a finger at me, the embodiment of every stern teacher who'd ever handed out a detention slip with the phrase "I'm not angry, just disappointed."
So I retaliated in the most mature way possible.
I picked my nose and flicked it at him. "Holy ball attack!"
The ectoplasmic offense missed, but something about the gesture must've struck a nerve—because Mr. Woo let out a sound like a haunted vacuum and charged after me around the table.
"Wah! Mummy!" I shrieked, sprinting for my life in frantic circles.