Twelve Times

They've already said the words twelve times. "One last time," my friend giggled, but something was already bothering me. "Say it with me," she said as she faced the mirror. "Bloody Mary."

The mirror reflected nothing but our images, and I was about to sigh in relief. Then something caught my eye.

A shadow.

I turned to the corner of the bathroom, and there stood a woman, her head held down, hair covering her face, blood strewn across her tattered dress.

I felt a hand tug my arm, and saw it was my friend, paralyzed with fear, her eyes on the same corner.

Shaking, I turned my gaze back to the ghost, but only saw as it ran towards us.