The crone hovers in the stale darkness behind the silvered glass. Matted hair covers her face, willowy pencil fingers ever poised for the next person who calls to her. She’s been there for centuries and passes the time behind craggy eyelids reliving dreadful memories as she waits for the next daring soul.
A pubescent girl approaches the looking glass, admiring her reflection, appreciating herself.
The crone stirs from slumber, approaches, and taps a single talon on the glass, taunting her to come closer.
The girl inhales deeply, a smile on her lips, focusing her stare.
“Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary. Bloody Ma…”