There was something wrong with the mirror in Ivy's room.
It didn't reflect right anymore.
Not just shadows or flickers—it delayed. A beat too slow. Her hand would move... then the mirror would follow. Like it was thinking. Or watching.
She stopped using it. But she couldn't stop looking.
That night, after the ride, Ivy sat alone.
Kate was downstairs in the study, arguing with someone on the phone—probably the school again. Flora was drawing. Always drawing.
Ivy stared at her hands.
They looked thinner. Paler. Was it the lighting?
She turned to the mirror.
And froze.
In the glass—her lips curled into a smile.
But she wasn't smiling.
She spun around. Nothing behind her. Just the cold hum of the wind outside.
Her reflection grinned wider.
And then winked.
Ivy screamed.
Kate burst in. "Ivy?!"
"It was the mirror," Ivy gasped. "It—it smiled. It moved on its own!"
Kate rushed over, grabbed her shoulders. "You're not sleeping. You're hallucinating. I'll call a doctor."
"No," Ivy whispered. "You don't understand."
Kate's voice cracked. "Then help me. I can't lose you too."
Meanwhile, in the lounge, Flora was drawing again. Her paper covered in red crayon.
Kate approached her later.
"What are you drawing, sweetheart?"
Flora held up the page.
It was a girl. Long blonde hair. Pale skin. Standing in front of a shattered mirror.
Behind her... a man with black eyes.
Kate's blood ran cold.
"Is that Ivy?"
"No," Flora said cheerfully. "That's Miss Jessel. And that's Peter."
Kate's mouth fell open. "Where did you hear those names?"
"I didn't," Flora smiled. "I remembered them."
That night, Ivy stood outside Miles's door.
It was open.
He lay on the bed, arms behind his head, shirt half undone, looking like sin and secrets.
"Ivy," he said, like he knew she'd come.
"I couldn't sleep."
"I know."
"Something's happening to me."
He sat up slowly.
"It's Bly," he whispered. "It keeps the ones it likes."
He stood and approached her. Too close. Too calm.
"Ivy... do you want it to stop?"
She didn't speak.
His breath touched her cheek.
"Then stop fighting it."
Downstairs, Kate tried calling Mrs. Grose again.
No answer.
Then she noticed the last photo in the hallway—one she hadn't seen before.
It was old. Black-and-white.
A young man on a black horse.
Dark curls.
An eerie grin.
Eyes too familiar.
She leaned closer.
And in faded ink, the name: Peter Quint.