Your hand trembles as you reach for the cracked glass. The mirror hums low and deep like something breathing from beneath its surface.
As your fingertips brush the cold, splintered edge, the world around you shifts. The candlelight vanishes. The room darkens. But the mirror… it begins to glow.
Suddenly, you see her, Annie Palmer standing behind your reflection, her face pale and twisted with rage.
“Mi did warn dem not to touch mi things…” she hisses in a voice layered with centuries of pain.”
You try to pull away, but your hand won’t move. The mirror has you now. Visions flash: screaming slaves, blood-soaked sheets, three husbands buried alive beneath the floorboards of Rose Hall. You’re seeing what she saw, what she did.
A sharp whisper cuts through your mind:
“Mi spirit nuh rest… unless yuh take mi place.”
What do you do now?