I Revived My Maid, Now She Hungers for My Blood
Chapter 310: The Past Reflected in the Mirror

The young man kept shaking his head, still bewildered. His fear seemed to stem more from the “self-playing” piano and his girlfriend’s hysterical state.

“I… I really only heard the piano playing. Saw the keys moving on their own… Nothing else. Nothing.”

Elliot watched the two young lovers give utterly contradictory accounts, his brow deeply furrowed. If the young man hadn’t seen any horrifying visions, what had frightened him into this state? Just an “automatically playing” piano? No, his fear was real.

But his memory…

Almost on instinct, the journalist glanced toward Elsa again. No matter how fiercely the couple argued, no matter how their emotions frayed and snapped, Elsa just stood there. Silent. Her expression calm to the point of indifference.

The pen in her hand glided across her notebook with a soft, rustling sound. She just kept recording. Recording their reactions. Recording the chaos.

That growing sense of wrongness in Elliot’s heart coiled tighter around him, a creeping frostvine. She was here too. Inside this uncanny murder house.

She herself could be facing these dangers. But the feeling this “benefactor” gave off was profoundly strange. It was as though… she wasn’t the least bit worried about her own safety!

Recalling her cryptic comment earlier, and all her bizarre behavior, Elliot suddenly found this “asset appraiser” radiating an eeriness that was, if anything, a notch above the mansion itself.

His frown deepened. His finger quietly clicked the camera shutter again. The soft click was almost swallowed by the couple’s squabbling and ragged breaths.

Before he could chase the thought, a dull, heavy crash exploded from the other side of the foyer, near the ring of standing mirrors. Thud! The sound of something massive collapsing to the ground.

Everyone—even the arguing couple—snapped their heads toward the noise.

Milo, the veteran, reacted fastest. He’d already lunged toward it.

The sound had come from one of the mirrors. The one previously shrouded in black cloth. Now, for whatever reason, the drape had slid down, pooling on the floor, exposing most of the mirror’s face.

A thick layer of dust coated the glass, making the reflection barely visible.

But Milo stood there, body going rigid. He stared at the dust-caked mirror, his pupils constricted.

“What did you see?” Elliot hurried over, his voice tight, his camera already aimed at the mirror’s surface.

Milo didn’t answer right away. He just stood there in heavy silence, his gaze complex. There was shock in it. A trace of anguish. And something deeper. Something too profound to name.

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Elsa drifted over as well, her voice steady as she asked, “You need to speak it aloud. This is important.” Her tone held no coercion, yet it carried an indisputable weight.

Milo remained silent for a moment longer. Finally, he rasped out in a hoarse voice, “I think I saw… a comrade. One I lost. In the war.”

His voice was steady, but his knuckles—the ones gripping the bulge at his waist—trembled faintly.

“…Sometimes, someone has to step up. Could be a mission. Could be a rescue… or just someone needed to play bait. That time… he volunteered. The one who went died. The one who lived… was me.”

He paused, his voice faltering. “This… I’ve never been able to let it go.”

Milo’s gaze seemed distant. As if he were peering straight through the dust-covered glass into the distant past.

Elliot listened quietly, his journalistic instincts latching onto the raw emotion and buried story. If he could include a segment like this in his report—a real, weighty personal experience—it would be excellent.

And regarding their sponsor and asset appraiser, Elsa…

Elliot sent a sidelong glance her way.

At a moment like this—so clearly involving intense personal emotion and traumatic memory—she’d actually lowered her pen. Stopped writing. She just stood there silently, listening to Milo’s words.

Her eyes were deep and unreadable.

I really can’t figure out what’s going through that woman’s head, Elliot thought to himself.

As everyone gathered around Milo, listening to his low, gravelly voice recount old war stories, the young couple reignited their argument, their voices climbing higher and higher.

The girl was digging her nails into her boyfriend’s arm, voice shrill and ragged. “I really saw it! The father’s back… and the daughter… her eyes…”

“Enough!” The young man suddenly threw off her grip, his face flushed with irritation and something darker.

“I already told you I didn’t see it! I didn’t see anything!”

His voice had risen a notch above normal. It sounded like he was trying to convince the others. Or maybe himself.

“I wasn’t scared at all! I only… only ran because you ran! Can you stop being so paranoid?!”

“You weren’t scared?” The girl’s eyes went round, tears brimming at the edges.

“Only I was scared by my own hallucination? Fine! Fine!”

She jabbed a trembling finger at the music room door, still standing open. Her voice wobbled with agitation. “Then go back in there! Right now! What are you afraid of?!”

“Who says I’m afraid?!” The young man bristled, his face flushing crimson and his neck straining. “Fine!”

He spun around, his movements charged with fury, and shoved the door open again, marching inside.

Within the room, that piano kept spewing its chaotic, atonal clangor. No melody. Pure noise.

The young man barged in, and as if to prove his fearlessness, he started kicking at random objects in the room.

An overturned chair went flying, smashing against the wall with a heavy thud. A decorative porcelain vase was swept off a table, shattering to pieces.

All the while, he kept shouting to himself, loud and repetitive, as if reinforcing his own conviction.

“All fake! Cheap tricks! There’s no monsters! No ghosts! Just kid’s stuff! It’s gotta be that reporter… or that weird woman! Trying to scare us!”

The discordant music kept going. The young man’s eyes finally fixed on the grand piano. He drew a deep breath, as if steeling his nerve, then strode behind it.

Seconds later, a triumphant cheer burst from him. “See! I knew it!”

“It’s a phonograph! This busted phonograph sitting right behind the piano!” He bent down and dragged out an old record player with a tarnished brass horn.

The record was still spinning, the needle scratching through its grooves, producing those harsh, dissonant piano noises.

“See? I was right! Just a bunch of scare tactics! Bet it was that reporter or the sponsor lady who set this up beforehand!”

Grinning wildly, he straightened up and turned toward the doorway. His voice rang with victory. “I told you, stuff like that can’t possibly—”

His words choked off in mid-sentence.