No one in Makati could understand why Daniel and Isabella seemed so lucky.They weren’t rich, and they didn’t flaunt anything. But their small condominium near Ayala Avenue always felt warm in a way money couldn’t explain. Potted plants by the windows, the distant hum of jeepneys below, Sunday mornings with pandesal and coffee, and laughter that lingered long after sunset. Daniel used to joke that their happiness was so thick, even strangers could feel it just by passing by.
And inside that happiness…
there was always Elena.
Elena had been part of Isabella’s life long before Daniel ever entered it. She wasn’t her blood sister, but in the Philippines, blood wasn’t the only thing that made family. They called each other ate and bunso, grew up together, slept side by side during brownouts, shared secrets under mosquito nets, and once swore that if one of them died first, the other would never let her soul be alone.
“Elena is my family,” Isabella often said.
“Without her… I’m nothing.”
Daniel respected that.
He liked Elena. Truly. She was gentle, thoughtful, always knowing what to say. When Daniel proposed to Isabella, Elena cried harder than anyone. At their church wedding in Quezon City, Elena stood beside Isabella—quiet and devoted—like a loyal shadow.
And when Isabella moved in with Daniel…
Elena was there too.
At first, nothing felt wrong.
Just visits that lasted a little longer than planned. Nights when Elena slept on the couch. Moments when Isabella would say softly, almost apologetically:
“She only has me.”
Then Isabella began to fade.
Not the kind of tiredness that comes from work, but a slow, silent exhaustion. She slept more, ate less, forgot things. Sometimes she stared at nothing, as if listening to a voice only she could hear.
At night, Daniel woke to her whispering:
“Don’t leave…”
“Stay with me…”
“I’m scared…”
When he asked, Isabella only smiled weakly.
“I was dreaming about Elena.”
Strangely, whenever Elena visited, Isabella seemed better—for a while.
And whenever Elena left, Isabella grew worse than before.
Elena, however, never changed.
She never looked tired. Never sad. And somehow… she never seemed to age.
Weeks passed. Then months. Daniel realized Elena hadn’t aged at all. No lines on her face. No shadows under her eyes. Always radiant, always calm—like she was being sustained by Isabella’s slow decline.
Once, Daniel caught Elena standing in front of the mirror for a long time.
Not fixing her hair.
Not adjusting her dress.
Just staring at herself… smiling in quiet satisfaction.
The first night Daniel felt true fear was during a heavy monsoon rain.
He woke up to an unnatural silence.
No rain.
No sound of Isabella breathing.
Only the feeling… of being watched.
Elena was sitting in their bedroom.
No lights.
No invitation.
No explanation.
She sat perfectly still, hands folded on her lap, eyes locked on Isabella. She didn’t blink. She didn’t move.
“Elena…” Daniel whispered. “What are you doing here?”
She turned her head slowly.
“I’m worried about her,” Elena said.
“Isabella is weak. If I’m not here… she’ll disappear.”
From that night on, Daniel never slept well again.
He began noticing things he had once forced himself to ignore.
Elena never appeared in photos
Family pictures always showed a blur where she should have been
When light fell behind her, she cast no shadow
And whenever Isabella held Elena’s hand… her heartbeat slowed
Isabella began speaking to Elena even when she wasn’t there.
“You’re here, right?”
“I can hear you breathing.”
“Please don’t be angry with me…”
Desperate, Daniel sought help from an albularyo, an old folk healer in Bulacan.
The woman listened without interrupting. Then she opened a wooden box and handed him a small black mirror made of volcanic stone.
“That thing loves your wife,” she said quietly.
“But it isn’t human love.”
“Then what is it?” Daniel asked.
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“It has no soul.
And it survives… by feeding on the souls of those who love it.”
On the night of the full moon, Daniel decided to end it.
Elena sat beside Isabella, stroking her hair, humming an old childhood lullaby. Isabella smiled faintly, like a child drifting into a final sleep.
Daniel raised the mirror.
The reflection almost made him scream.
Isabella was nothing but a thin, flickering light—like a candle about to go out.
And Elena…
A hollow corpse.
A twisted shape with a mouth too wide.
Draining life itself.
“You shouldn’t look,” Elena said, her voice filling the room.
“You don’t understand our love.”
“That isn’t love!” Daniel shouted.
“That’s murder!”
Elena smiled.
“To humans,” she whispered,
“what’s the difference?”
They fled that night.
Isabella survived.
But Daniel never escaped the fear.
Even now, Isabella sometimes wakes at 3:17 a.m., staring at the wall.
“She’s behind it,” she whispers.
“She’s just… hungry.”
One night, Daniel wakes to see Isabella standing in front of the mirror.
She isn’t looking at herself.
She’s talking to something inside it.
“I miss you,” Isabella whispers.
“I kept my promise. I didn’t let him forget you.”
Daniel’s heart nearly stops.
Behind Isabella’s reflection…
a thin gray hand rests on her shoulder.
Isabella turns to him, eyes filled with love—
but not for him.
“Elena says,” she smiles,
“this time… she won’t take much.”
The lights go out.
And in the darkness, a familiar voice whispers beside his ear:
“Did you really think…
her love was meant for only one person?”
The next morning, the condo is empty.
No signs of struggle.
No broken doors.
No blood.
Only the black mirror sits on the table, cracked slightly—
like a smile.
And deep within it…
two dark red eyes
slowly open.