the haunted mirror.

Carlie didn’t set out to own a haunted mirror.

And she didn’t really own it.

It came with the house. And it didn’t really seem like it could be moved, even if she wanted to.

The phone call had come through on Monday afternoon. Carlie didn’t even know she had a Great Aunt Petunia. It seemed like the punch line of a story. But she hadn’t changed her will in a long time, obviously, because her will still named Carlie’s decade-long dead father as the sole inheritor. And she was his sole inheritor. She looked around her tiny room in a flatshare with a girl obsessed with the tuba, and a guy she was pretty sure was stoned more often than he wasn’t. So she agreed to get on a plane to Whangarei. Well, Auckland, and a bus to Whangarei.

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Look, this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

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