The Mirror Pool

September 1906. The air in Shadow Falls was crisp, carrying the scent of turning leaves and the last whispers of summer. The town’s heart, a placid pond nestled amongst ancient oaks in the town's square, had always been a source of quiet pride. Ducks paddled its surface, children skipped stones across its ripples, and lovers watched sunsets paint the sky in its gentle reflection.   But on the night of September 12th, something shifted.   Old Man Hemlock, out for his nightly constitutional with his terrier, Barnaby, was the first to notice. As he approached the pond, his usual shuffle slowed, then stopped entirely. The water, typically a murky green under the moonlight, was gone. In its place was a surface so perfectly still, so flawlessly polished, that it seemed to absorb the stars themselves. It was as if a giant, invisible hand had laid down a sheet of obsidian.   Barnaby, usually prone to yapping at anything that moved, whimpered and pressed himself against Hemlock’s leg, his tail tucked tight. Hemlock squinted, his breath catching in his throat. The reflection was not merely clear; it was hyper-real, every branch of every oak tree, every shingle on the distant rooftops, rendered with an impossible precision.   But then, as he leaned closer, a flicker. A face, gaunt and twisted, with eyes too wide, shimmered just beneath his own reflection. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a ripple that wasn't a ripple at all, but a shimmering, distorted hand reaching out from the depths.   Word spread like wildfire through Shadow Falls. Soon, the entire town was gathered at the pond’s edge, a hushed, bewildered crowd. Lanterns cast long shadows, illuminating faces etched with a mix of awe and terror.   Young Marybeth, usually boisterous, clung to her mother’s skirt, pointing a trembling finger. “Mama, look! The man with no eyes!”   Indeed, the reflections were not just of Shadow Falls. Interspersed with their own familiar surroundings were fleeting, horrifying visages. A woman with hair like tangled roots and a mouth that stretched impossibly wide. A child with three eyes, weeping tears of silver. A man whose entire body seemed to be made of shifting shadows. None of them were recognizable. They appeared and vanished, sometimes subtly warping the reflections of the townsfolk themselves, sometimes dominating the surface in a silent, grotesque display.   Fear mingled with an almost obsessive curiosity. Days turned into nights, and still, the pond remained a perfect, terrifying mirror. Farmers neglected their fields, shopkeepers left their doors unlocked, as the entire community became enthralled by the inexplicable spectacle. Theories blossomed like weeds in untended gardens. Some whispered of a curse, others of a portal to another world. Pastor Blackwell preached fire and brimstone, declaring it a sign of divine displeasure. Dr. Albright, a man of science, meticulously recorded every strange image, his brow furrowed in perpetual bewilderment.   One evening, Jeremiah Underwood, the town drunkard, stumbled towards the pond, his courage bolstered by a flask of rye. He leaned over the edge, shouting a slurred challenge. For a moment, his own distorted face stared back, eyes bloodshot and accusatory. Then, slowly, the water rippled, and a hand, impossibly long and skeletal, seemed to reach up, its fingers stretching towards him. Jeremiah screamed, a sound that tore through the night, and scrambled backward, spilling his precious flask. He never touched alcohol again.   A week passed. The reflections grew more intense, more frequent. The air around the pond felt heavy, charged with an unseen energy. Sleep became a luxury, as nightmares of the mirrored faces plagued the town's inhabitants.   Then, on the morning of September 19th, as the first rays of dawn touched the water, the phenomenon began to recede. The perfect, unsettling clarity softened. The strange faces flickered less often, growing fainter and more ethereal. By noon, the water had returned to its usual, murky green. The ducks, which had mysteriously vanished, reappeared, paddling placidly as if nothing had ever happened.   Shadow Falls was changed.   The pond, once a symbol of serene beauty, now held a hint of the uncanny. People spoke of the "Mirror Pool" in hushed tones, a shared secret that bound them together. The experience left an indelible mark, a subtle shift in the town’s collective psyche. They had seen something beyond their comprehension, a glimpse into a reality that was both beautiful and terrifying.   And though the pond looked normal, sometimes, on a still night, when the moon was full and the wind whispered through the oaks, one could almost imagine, just for a moment, the faintest flicker of a forgotten face in its depths.