[The mirror cracks, line veins trailing up, down, over the smiling expressions. Everything is twisted and broken and out of place until the mirror does not so much shatter as turn to ash, crumpling piece by piece in clumps of blackened dust to the floor. The smell in the air--of death, burning, gunpowder--may be familiar.
The whispers don't stop. There are eyes on him from somewhere else. Can't he feel them watching, waiting?