Frights & Fables: The Crimson Reflection
Flash Fiction
Gather around Mi Amici. I have a story to tell you. A horror to share. In the still, dark recesses of a killer’s heart, an ember grows, and a fire spreads. Read down and enjoy this tale of tragedy and triumph and tragedy. But be warned, you may want to subscribe to this blog. Soon our content will be coming to our subscribers and not be released for general consumption.
Before you read this, just know… Giallo is rather intense (emotional horror and violence) and not automatically for everybody. Otherwise… enjoy.
The Crimson Reflection
The rain painted the cobblestone streets of Florence in streaks of silver, the air thick with the bittersweet aroma of damp earth and distant cigarette smoke. Night had fallen like a curtain, turning the world into a series of shadows cast under dim streetlights. Inside the cracked walls of an aging palazzo, gilded by time and decay, a stranger stared into the murky surface of a fractured mirror.
Her name was Sofia Manni, a restorator known for reviving the long-forgotten beauty of Italy’s frescoes. Few knew her past; even fewer suspected her secrets. Tonight, as she ran her fingers over the gilded edge of the mirror, she regretted descending into this memory-laden chamber. The house belonged to her mentor, Paolo Corsini—a legendary art dealer whose talents had been eclipsed by rumors of forgery before his sudden and violent end.
Corsini’s death had occurred six months ago, in this very room. The scene was grotesque even by the imagination of those who whispered about it—a splatter of blood across the glass that forever tainted its reflection. Officials said a thief murdered him, though the stolen frescoes reappeared months later in private galleries. Sofia didn’t believe it. Too much of Corsini’s life had remained locked behind smiles and mystery.
She pushed the mirror’s frame aside and revealed a hollow space carved within the wall. Faint moonlight snuck through the broken shutters, illuminating delicate letters etched in scarred wood. “La bellezza uccide,” it read—Beauty kills.
A creak behind her.
Sofia spun, hand trembling as she grabbed the nearest object—a rusted length of iron once meant to hold a fireplace grate. Her eyes darted across the room. Was it the rain? The wind? Or something more? The air felt warmer now, oppressive, as the echo of her breathing betrayed the silence.
“Too curious, as always,” a low voice purred from the shadows.
The figure emerged slowly, a silhouette outlined by the faint slits of light from the shutters. A man cloaked in black, a dark scarf masking his mouth, revealing only cold hazel eyes. His gloved hand clutched a straight razor, its blade gleaming cruelly.
“How poetic, Sofia,” the man continued, his tone mocking. “The prodigal pupil, poking through the sins of a dead man. I hope you’ve discovered something… worth dying for.”
“You killed him,” Sofia hissed. Though fear cracked her voice, she tightened her grip on the iron bar.
The man’s laughter was dry, empty. “A killer? No, cara. I’m an artist, just like Paolo was—a sculptor of fate. You…” He took two deliberate steps forward, shutting the distance between them. “You may yet become my muse.”
Sofia’s heart thundered in her chest as the man lunged. She swung the bar wildly, metal meeting metal as the razor glanced away, sparks scattering like fireflies in the dark. She stumbled back, feeling the cold bite of the mirror’s jagged edge against her upper arm. Blood seeped through her sleeve, a vivid red painting her pale skin.
The man closed in again, raising his blade. “Such beauty, Sofia. A shame you chose to waste it with questions.”
But Sofia’s hand shot out instinctively, catching the edge of the mirrored panel she had uncovered earlier. She drove it forward with all her might, the jagged shard slicing into his side. A gasp tore from the man’s lips as he collapsed to the floor, clutching the wound.
The room seemed to hold its breath. The mirror trembled on its hinges before crashing to the floor, shattering into countless, glittering shards.
Sofia didn’t look away. She knelt beside the fallen man, who now lay in the flickering glow of an unattended candle. Blood seeped out into the ornate cracks of the floor tile, mirroring a macabre fresco. His scarf had fallen, revealing a cruelly handsome face she’d seen before.
“Luigi Corsini,” she whispered, his name falling from her lips like an elegy. Paolo’s estranged nephew. The gambler. The outcast. The unseen heir to the Corsini fortune. She had dismissed the thought before, but now it fit as perfectly as the final shard in a broken mosaic.
“You… couldn’t leave it alone,” Luigi sputtered, a bitter laugh forcing its way out. “You think you’ve found the truth? You’ve only opened the door.” He sagged against the marble floor as his last breath escaped.
Sofia sat back, her bloodied hands trembling in her lap. The truth—the real truth—felt closer, but also far more dangerous. Corsini’s death had been more than the act of greed she imagined. Something larger loomed—a web of deceit, betrayal, and power that Paolo had never warned her about but had surely seen.
Her gaze lifted to the broken mirror, the crimson stained glass staring back at her as though alive. Her reflection wavered among the fragmented shards, each piece capturing a different version of herself—calm, terrified, enraged.
And from the shadows where Luigi had stood moments earlier, the faintest whisper seemed to breathe through the silence.
“La bellezza uccide.”
Sofia stood, heart pounding, as the fragmented pieces of her mentor’s past prepared to claim her future.
