Dark Reflections

Lila's first day in Morton was like stepping into an old black-and-white photograph. The town was small, a little too quiet, with winding streets that seemed to lead into one another like a maze designed by a topsy-turvy dreamer. "You won't find many visitors this time of year," Sarah, the landlady, had said with a chuckle as Lila unpacked her bags. Her voice was soft but had that amused edge of someone who already knew secrets you were destined to uncover. "But lots of character. That's what they say about Morton." For Lila, a budding photographer, the town's character was precisely what she needed. Each corner told a story waiting to be captured, but to her surprise, it wasn't the cobblestone paths or the ancient trees that caught her lens's eye—it was reflections. Peculiar reflections that made her heart leap, beading her forehead with inexplicable sweat. One overcast afternoon, while snapping routine town shots, she paused at the old church's stagnant pond. The water was murky, breaching on mold-green, yet it mirrored the surrounding Oaks with unexpected precision. Holding her camera close, she peered through the viewfinder and gasped. A shadow flitted behind the massive oak trunks, a figure stark and poised, rippling in stark contrast to their leaf-bound frames. But when she looked up, there was nothing. Later that day, as the rain gently drummed on the roof of 'Griff's Café', Lila huddled in a corner booth, reviewing her photos. The chilling sensation of being watched gnawed at her gut, each picture of the oak distorted by that unnerving shadowy imprint. Intrigued, she showed them to Griff, the café owner. "Ah, the old stories don’t fade," Griff mused, adjusting his glasses as he squinted at the digital screen. "Used to say those oaks were older than the church, older than anything ‘round here. They ain't regular, that's for sure." "What do you mean regular?" Lila quizzed, her curiosity tangible. "Let's just say folks kept their distances for a reason," he grinned, revealing age-worn teeth. "Some say the past just ain't past." That night, Lila tossed in bed, the raindrops now a pulsing heartbeat against her window. Maybe it was her exhaustion, or perhaps the swampy air, but a growing urge nudged her awake. Grabbing her flashlight, she slunk out, guided by an unseen pull towards the very reflection that haunted her mind. The church's shadow loomed as she tiptoed around ancient headstones, her flashlight beam bouncing among the graves. Though silence blanketed the moments, she felt a presence, a whisper just beyond earshot crawling against her skin. Daring a breath, Lila focused her gaze on the pond. The reflection lay in eerie calm, yet the face peering back wasn’t hers. It smiled, a knowing, half-crooked emphatic grin. Backing away slowly, she tripped against a stone, tipping back. In an eternity stretched moment, her surroundings warped, reflection warping into reality as bone-chilled hands grasped her from behind. It yanked her upright as though demanding a dance. Fighting against unseen hands, the whispers sung louder—tales of betrayal, sacrifices, villains disguised as friends. Lila's heart thrummed against what felt like an invisible vice. "Lillith," a voice resolved finally. It wasn't menacing. More reliving. Through blinding fear, Lila managed a broken question, "Who... what are you?" "The other side," it tilted its head. "Guardians, historians, family... You know us." Again, a mirthless grin spread wide. The revelation sent tendrils into Lila's heart. Suddenly, it clicked—the field guide historian she'd learned about, the tales she'd inherited in hushed whispers. Stewart Morton, leading a dismissed era. Accepting what she couldn't fathom earlier, she echoed back, "We protect this place, what lies beneath. You aren't different, Steward Morton Jr." The fleeting warmth of acceptance replaced stark apprehension. She finally saw the truths reflected as clear as dawn's breaking light—the guardians weren't malicious, merely recalling shadows forgotten by time. They needed her. Weeks later, Morton bore new stories in its reflections—colorful, rich, layered. Lila strolled with her camera, lens capturing what no pebble-skipping passerby could see—stories only whispers tell. Her bond with the shadowed spirits grew stronger. They weren't alone in history as much as they were allies in a legacy seldom entrusted. She feared no shadows. She embraced them.