She slammed into the master bathroom and locked the door. The mirror was already fogged. Words appeared, finger-written from the other side: BLOW OUT THE CANDLES OR WE BLOW OUT YOUR EYES. The lightbulb flickered, then burst. In the darkness she heard breathing—hers, and four smaller ones, way too close. She flicked her lighter. The flame showed the four children standing behind her reflection, waving. She spun; the room was empty. The lighter went out. When she sparked it again, her reflection was gone. Only the children remained in the mirror, now life-size, pressing their palms against the glass from inside. One by one they stepped through the mirror like it was water, dripping silver. The last one turned and beckoned with a finger to her lips: “Shh. Daddy’s sleeping.”
