Blair Bathory

Her father silent at the kitchen table, his mouth moving. But no sound came. His hands were coated in gray ash. The room around him pulsed, shadows dancing at the edge of her vision. When she woke, her sheets were damp, and her arms bore red marks shaped like letters she didn't know. She stopped sleeping. She stopped eating, but she kept reading.

The book grew warmer, at first subtly, like it had absorbed her body heat. But then it pulsed under her fingers. The brittle pages softened. Symbols began to make sense. Words she didn't know spilled from her mouth when she read aloud. And then the voice began. It came from behind the mirror. Not Hebrew. Not Aramaic. Just thought. It whispered the same thing every time. At first, she ignored it.

The book grew warmer, at first subtly, like it had absorbed her body heat. But then it pulsed under her fingers. The brittle pages softened. Symbols began to make sense. Words she didn't know spilled from her mouth when she read aloud. And then the voice began. It came from behind the mirror. Not Hebrew. Not Aramaic. Just thought. It whispered the same thing every time. At first, she ignored it.

The book grew warmer, at first subtly, like it had absorbed her body heat. But then it pulsed under her fingers. The brittle pages softened. Symbols began to make sense. Words she didn't know spilled from her mouth when she read aloud. And then the voice began. It came from behind the mirror. Not Hebrew. Not Aramaic. Just thought. It whispered the same thing every time. At first, she ignored it.

Then one night, she whispered the name back, half a dare, half a prayer. That night, the handprint on the mirror doubled. Two palms, pressed side by side. She called Lila, her father's old assistant, and asked her if she was working on anything. Weird. Lila hesitated. She had been different than last year. He was working on a correction. He stopped teaching. Even stopped going to shul.

Then one night, she whispered the name back, half a dare, half a prayer. That night, the handprint on the mirror doubled. Two palms, pressed side by side. She called Lila, her father's old assistant, and asked her if she was working on anything. Weird. Lila hesitated. She had been different than last year. He was working on a correction. He stopped teaching. Even stopped going to shul.

Then one night, she whispered the name back, half a dare, half a prayer. That night, the handprint on the mirror doubled. Two palms, pressed side by side. She called Lila, her father's old assistant, and asked her if she was working on anything. Weird. Lila hesitated. She had been different than last year. He was working on a correction. He stopped teaching. Even stopped going to shul.

Leah asked if he ever mentioned the chauffeur. Lila's voice dropped. Only once. He said he'd opened something, and couldn't close it. Leah flipped back to the book. Finally, she found a page folded over twice and crusted with old wax. A correction ritual. No blood, no flesh, just a sacrifice of belief. She had to give something up, something she believed completely, speak it aloud, let it go.

Leah asked if he ever mentioned the chauffeur. Lila's voice dropped. Only once. He said he'd opened something, and couldn't close it. Leah flipped back to the book. Finally, she found a page folded over twice and crusted with old wax. A correction ritual. No blood, no flesh, just a sacrifice of belief. She had to give something up, something she believed completely, speak it aloud, let it go.

Leah asked if he ever mentioned the chauffeur. Lila's voice dropped. Only once. He said he'd opened something, and couldn't close it. Leah flipped back to the book. Finally, she found a page folded over twice and crusted with old wax. A correction ritual. No blood, no flesh, just a sacrifice of belief. She had to give something up, something she believed completely, speak it aloud, let it go.

She sat in a circle again, didn't bother with candles, just the book, just the dark. She whispered, There is no God. The whisper behind the mirror laughed, then silence. Then every candle in the apartment blazed to life. Then a wind tore through the study, knocking over books. But the chalk circle held. The mirror shivered, warped, then melted to black. From inside, something looked out.

She sat in a circle again, didn't bother with candles, just the book, just the dark. She whispered, There is no God. The whisper behind the mirror laughed, then silence. Then every candle in the apartment blazed to life. Then a wind tore through the study, knocking over books. But the chalk circle held. The mirror shivered, warped, then melted to black. From inside, something looked out.

She sat in a circle again, didn't bother with candles, just the book, just the dark. She whispered, There is no God. The whisper behind the mirror laughed, then silence. Then every candle in the apartment blazed to life. Then a wind tore through the study, knocking over books. But the chalk circle held. The mirror shivered, warped, then melted to black. From inside, something looked out.

No face, no figure, just presence. It pressed on her chest like deep water. She couldn't move. Could barely breathe. Then she heard her name. Not in the whisper. Not in her father's voice. In her own. Leah. She looked down. The book had changed. New words curled across the page. Lines that hadn't been there before. Fresh ink, still wet. Her name beside it. Mikor Amunah. Source of faith.

No face, no figure, just presence. It pressed on her chest like deep water. She couldn't move. Could barely breathe. Then she heard her name. Not in the whisper. Not in her father's voice. In her own. Leah. She looked down. The book had changed. New words curled across the page. Lines that hadn't been there before. Fresh ink, still wet. Her name beside it. Mikor Amunah. Source of faith.

No face, no figure, just presence. It pressed on her chest like deep water. She couldn't move. Could barely breathe. Then she heard her name. Not in the whisper. Not in her father's voice. In her own. Leah. She looked down. The book had changed. New words curled across the page. Lines that hadn't been there before. Fresh ink, still wet. Her name beside it. Mikor Amunah. Source of faith.

And beneath that, her father's last note. To believe is to fear. To fear is to understand. The next morning, she wiped away the chalk circle. She didn't return to school. She went to shul, sat in the back, buried under layers of incense and murmured prayers and whispered Kedesh, not just to her father, for herself.

And beneath that, her father's last note. To believe is to fear. To fear is to understand. The next morning, she wiped away the chalk circle. She didn't return to school. She went to shul, sat in the back, buried under layers of incense and murmured prayers and whispered Kedesh, not just to her father, for herself.

And beneath that, her father's last note. To believe is to fear. To fear is to understand. The next morning, she wiped away the chalk circle. She didn't return to school. She went to shul, sat in the back, buried under layers of incense and murmured prayers and whispered Kedesh, not just to her father, for herself.

When the service ended, an older man approached, didn't speak, just handed her a folded note inside a drawing of a handprint and beneath it, in her father's handwriting. The door can be opened by doubt, but only faith can close it. She looked up. The man was gone. But in the reflection on the synagogue's last door, she saw a pale palm, gentle, pressed against her own, just for a moment.