THE SAINT OF SHADOWS

2

Morning came late in Valehollow.

Fog blanketed the village so thickly that the church bell sounded as if it were tolling from the bottom of the sea. Cassian stood on the chapel’s threshold, gazing at the small square still slick with last night’s rain. One by one, villagers arrived carrying bread, dried flowers, and candles to place on the stone altar outside the fence.

“For calming the night spirits,” an old woman told him with a faint smile.

Cassian only nodded. He no longer tried to correct their faith; after what he had seen, he wasn’t sure whom he was worshiping anymore.

He walked back into the church, trying to light the candles on the main altar, but their flames flickered as if resisting survival. The room was damp and cold, and the faint metallic smell still lingered in the air—the last traces of blood from the night before.

He looked up at the cross on the wall. The crack in it seemed larger than yesterday.

Before he could pray, a soft knock came at the door.

A young woman stood there. Pale, her long black hair fell loose beneath a wool hood. Her dark eyes seemed to absorb the light.

“Father Cassian?”

Cassian lowered the rosary in his hand. “What is it, my child?”

“I… I’m afraid.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Every night I see myself standing at the window. But my reflection doesn’t move when I do. Sometimes… it smiles.”

Cassian tightened his jaw. “Do you have a mirror in your house?”

“Yes.”

“Break it. And pray before you sleep.”

Mara—that was her name—bowed her head. “I already did, Father. But my reflection appears elsewhere. In water. In spoons. In the eyes of children who look at me.”

The church bell rang softly, three times. Cassian studied Mara for a long while before finally saying, “Come to evening mass. I’ll pray for you.”

He watched her leave, her figure slowly swallowed by the fog. When the door closed, Cassian noticed that the floor where she had stood was still wet—though the rain had stopped since dawn. The small puddle trailed toward the altar like a path of walking tears.

By late afternoon, Father Bren came to the church—a frail old man with trembling hands and clouded eyes. He brought bread, and news.

“Father Cassian,” he said quietly, “I saw something last night.”

Cassian turned. “What?”

“Two of you walking down the main road. One went into the church… the other toward the forest.”

Cassian froze, then forced a faint smile. “Perhaps your eyes deceived you, Father Bren.”

“Perhaps,” the old man replied with a smile. “But only one of them left footprints on the ground.”

Cassian said nothing. He only looked at the tall window beside the altar, where his own shadow warped strangely in the evening light.

Night fell like fog pressing the breath from his chest.

The church was silent, lit only by candles that trembled along the aisle. Cassian was writing in an old journal—prayers, or perhaps confessions—when he heard a faint sound.

Glass.

He turned sharply. At the far end of the room, a small mirror used for confession rituals hung crooked on the wall. The crack in it was new. He approached slowly, the hem of his robe brushing dust.

His reflection in the mirror looked darker than the room around it.

The same face—but the eyes were deeper, blacker.

Cassian touched the crack. “That’s enough…” he whispered. “I won’t let you show yourself again.”

His reflection smiled. He did not.

A chill spread from his fingertips, as if the glass pulsed beneath his touch. The altar candles went out one by one, leaving only a single trembling flame behind the mirror. In that reflection, Cassian saw himself turn around—even though he was standing still.

Then the reflection lifted its hand first.

Slowly, it reached toward the glass, and from within the crack came a faint sound—like a door locking from the other side.

Cassian stepped back, eyes wide.

From beyond the mirror, the reflection still watched him, but now its lips parted, and a whisper came out that sounded like his own breath:

“Mara didn’t see her reflection tonight… because I’m using yours.”

“Who are you?” His voice was low, but the tremor betrayed his fear.

Inside the mirror, Cassian’s shadow tilted its head. The movement was off—slightly delayed, like a mimic. Then the smile changed. Wide. Too wide.

“Have you forgotten?” the voice whispered from behind the glass. “I’m the one who called you that night. The one who made you come to this village.”

“Leave this place…” he murmured, barely audible.

But the reflection only bowed its head slightly, as if in prayer, and said softly,

“I’m already here.”

The toll of the bell suddenly shattered the silence.

Its heavy sound echoed from the tower above—long, deep, marking the hour of evening mass. Cassian flinched; he looked down, realizing his eyes were wet with cold sweat. When he looked back at the mirror, the reflection was gone.

Only his own image remained—or something like it—but expressionless.

He turned quickly as hurried footsteps approached outside the chapel. Many feet, the rustle of damp clothes, and broken whispers of prayer.

The church door opened slowly.

Mara stood in the doorway, wearing a gray dress clinging to her skin from the dew. Her face was even paler than that morning, her lips tinged blue, but in her eyes something glimmered like an ember.

Behind her, several villagers entered—men and women—all silent, heads bowed, their hands clutching unlit candles.

And among them stood Father Bren, smiling with his trembling yellowed teeth.

“Father Cassian,” he said softly, “we’ve come… for mass, as you asked.”

Cassian exhaled, voice steady. “Very well. Let us begin the service. We’ll perform a cleansing for you too—you’ll be protected from whatever you saw in the glass.”

But Mara didn’t move. She stayed by the doorway, smiling the same unmoving smile.

It wasn’t a warm smile. It looked more like a wound shaped to resemble joy.

“My child,” Cassian said gently, “sit in the front row.”

“I already am,” Mara replied softly.

Cassian frowned.

“No,” he muttered. “You’re still standing there.”

Mara’s grin widened, baring her perfectly straight teeth as her eyes bulged.

“I’m already seated, Father. You’re the one still standing.”

Before Cassian could respond, a rough hand touched his shoulder.

“Father Cassian?” Father Bren’s voice.

Cassian turned—and all the blood drained from his face.

Between the wooden pews, Mara sat in the very front row, wearing different clothes: a plain white dress, dry, as if freshly pressed.

Her hair was neatly combed, and in her lap lay a black rosary that belonged to no one in the village.