I didn't expect the story to spread. Not like this.
It was supposed to be just a journal—a private account of what happened to me. But now, strangers from all over the world are reaching out. They've seen her. Dreamed of her. Heard her whisper in rooms that should've been silent.
Some describe her exactly as I did—white dress, long black hair, face hidden. Others say she's changed. Evolving. Wearing new faces. Borrowing new voices. One girl claimed her reflection mouthed words she hadn't spoken.
Someone else described a group video call—five friends chatting—when a sixth screen suddenly lit up. No name. No audio. Just a black background. Then a face appeared. Half-shadowed. Smiling. Watching.
The strange thing is… the more I read these reports, the less scared I feel. Not because she's any less real, but because I'm beginning to understand something deeper.
She's not spreading like a virus.
She's reclaiming space that was always hers—a presence long erased, now remembered.
---
A historian from Denpasar emailed me. He had read my blog and asked to meet. We sat in a small café surrounded by antique masks and dusty books. He brought an old journal—leather-bound, with pages yellowed by time.
"This belonged to a Dutch anthropologist," he told me. "He lived in Bali during the 1930s."
The entries were mostly academic. Notes about rituals, festivals, temples. Until I found this passage dated August 1937:
> "The villagers speak of a mirror priestess. She could show a person their true self—not their face, but their shadow. They say she was buried upright, beneath a temple that no longer exists."
The entry ended mid-sentence. As if the writer had stopped suddenly.
The historian looked at me gravely.
"That temple… it stood where your villa now sits."
---
The dreams returned. But this time they weren't nightmares. They were maps.
She showed me symbols. Patterns I didn't recognize. A stone well. A mirror framed in thorns. Hands reaching into water—twelve of them, encircling something unseen.
When I woke, I drew what I saw. Uploaded it to my blog. Asked if anyone recognized it.
Three responses came within hours.
All from different countries.
All said the same thing:
> "We've seen this. In our dreams. Or scratched behind old mirrors."
One woman sent a photo of a public restroom in Germany. The mirror had been vandalized. Carved into it was the same circle of hands.
---
This is no longer about haunting.
It's about remembering.
She isn't a ghost. She's a message.
A voice that was buried.
A truth that was denied.
The mirrors? They're just paper.
And now that I've read enough, I think I know what she wants.
Not revenge. Not fear.
Recognition.
She wants to be remembered not as a legend or warning—but as a woman who saw too much, spoke too loud, and was silenced.
And now she speaks again.
Through us.
Through you.
---
I'm no longer afraid. I've stopped covering the mirrors. I let her in.
Because I've realized something.
She doesn't just want to be seen through my eyes.
She wants to be seen through yours.
So if you're reading this—and your screen flickers, or your mirror holds your gaze too long, or you hear a breath that isn't yours—
Don't look away.
Don't close your eyes.
Whisper back:
> "I remember you."
And maybe, just maybe…
She'll finally rest.
Or maybe she'll ask you to finish her story.
✅ **If you want Chapter 15 to be written, follow this novel, leave a comment, and add it to your collection. She's watching—and so am I.