It was one fifteen. A car, a Cadillac, spun across puddles along a narrow dirt road. It made it's way to a rickety, windowless house and came to a stop.

Inside, the investigator, smoking a new cigar, and little Lucie Dare painting on the window fog with her finger.

"Do you recognize it, Lucie?" The investigator said. She rubbed away the fog, her drawings, her breath.

"That is the house."

She shivered. Nightmares returning in her mind. "Hey." Whispered the inspector. He reached his hand to the back of the car. "You're safe. I'm here. Nothing can hurt you." The girl took his hand. She squeezed.

It had taken the investigator ages to work up the courage to buckle that child into the backseat of the same car he had been in when his whole world disappeared. Once he eventually managed, all he could do was stare at the key, unable to start the engine, The music blaring from the speakers. The windshield wipers speeding back and forth. He drove down the soaking wet roads slower then he had ever gone in his life. His hands shaking at the wheel. His heart shaking in his chest.

"Where did you get this car seat?" Lucie's voice felt like a knife in his chest. "Do you have a daughter?"

No answer. Just the rain. And the road.

Together, they entered the house, the ten-year-old behind the inspector, holding tightly to his shirt. "You've got your key?" He whispered. She nodded.

"Okay, Lucie. Let's go open the door, and then we can leave." Another nod. Five steps forward, five to the left. The little girl stopped. "Hey, Lu." He bent down, noticing her fear. "You don't have to do this. I told you before, you can give me the key and I can do it myself if you want."

She shook her head and clutched the key into a tight fist. "No. I'm not supposed to. I'll open it for you. I will."

The inspector nodded. "Alright."

Inside, thousands of their own faces greeted them. Mirrors lining each wall. Every move they made replicated over and over again thousands of times.

Up the stairs and to the left, and all the way down the hall led them to a locked room that Lucie knew all too well.

"It was my room." She whispered. She traced her finger along small indents in the wooden surface of the door.

"Why is it locked?"

"Something happened in there. Something bad."

She lifted her hand and pulled the string from her neck, but the inspector, by then, was focused on something else. A sound, like rustling books or papers, across the hall. He left Lucie there, by the door, which would ultimately have been his second greatest mistake.

Ten steps forward, down another hallway, and he found himself in front of the door to the study. He had been there before. The first day Richard Dare had been reported missing. He had wrecked havoc on that room, torn apart curtains, flung open drawers, knocked over bookshelves, looking for something- for anything- that could tell him where the old man might have gone. But he found nothing. Scribbled nonsense on notepads, open books on a desk. One day he was there, working in his study, and the next he had vanished.

The inspector opened the door slowly, and old hinges creaked. Dust flew past him, cobwebs lined the left wall, but the room was nearly the same as when he had left it. He looked left and right for the source of the rustling, past the maze of papers littering the floor. He stepped on grocery lists, notes, birthday cards. They crumpled under the weight of his feet.

"Hello?" He whispered into the emptiness. The sound echoed through the room, but the papers were still. "Who's there?"

He listened, for a moment. His heart racing in his chest. Where is it coming from?  He thought. The sound came again. Behind him.

He shifted his foot, turning his body around slowly. The room seemed to spin around him, and little specks of papers drifted around beside his feet. From out of the corner of his eye, the inspector noticed the mirror. It reflected the entire study inside of it, every sheet of paper and cracked wooden floorboard, flipped and drawn onto it's warped glass. He crept closer, narrowing his eyes. Studying it. Something about it seemed eerie, but he couldn't figure out exactly what it was. It made his stomach turn, and his hands began to feel numb. Taking more steps forward, he was only a foot away when he noticed where the sound was coming from. Towards the back of the room, reflected inside the mirror, he could see papers and books being jostled around by a small mouse. He quickly turned and looked behind him, but there was nothing. No mouse. No sound. He turned to the mirror again. This is not possible. his palms began to sweat. This is not possible. His weight shifted forward, drawing him closer to the mirror, nearly touching his nose to the glass. But there was still something else about that mirror, something unsettling. He stared at it, wondering, looking at the mouse, and the rest of the room, and back at the mouse. Suddenly, a sharp twinge of realization hit his chest. This is not- Where was his own reflection?