If you're reading this, I haven't blocked you. YET ...That means you're either not part of the surveillance team—or you're still watching, quietly.
I used to think the toxicity was limited to Richonne. Turns out, it's fandom-wide. While working on my final story, I felt emboldened to call out the mimicry, the echo chamber, and the rot. I never named names. But the beat dog hollered—twice.
I didn’t engage.
I isolated.
I protected my peace.
And still, I was surveilled. ??? WTF???
I made the mistake of reaching out to a writer after stumbling across a new pairing I hadn’t seen before. I read it. Good work. Horrible person. I mean a total C-U- next tussday!!! They took my compliment and spun it into drama, weaponizing disingenuous claims about AI—as if my thoughts, my ideas, my legacy could be generated, not copied.
Let me be clear: I wrote over 80% of my books before ChatGPT or any other tool existed. Look me up baby! If I choose to refine my work with AI, that’s my prerogative. Editing is not erasure. Enhancement is not theft.
Everyone who replied to that mess? You're part of the reason this fandom is garbage. And yet—look at the engagement. A post solely about me, flooded with commentary.😁🤣
😭I MEAN THE SOCKS COME OUT AT DAY AND NIGHT - chile... SO Yes, this unhinged Gen Xer made her point.🔥
I’m proud of my work.
I’m proud of my silence.
I’m proud of the legacy I’ve built while the rest of you chased clout and collapsed into mimicry.
The estate was older than memory—its walls steeped in secrets, its chandeliers trembling with stories no one dared retell. Michonne stood in the grand parlor, adjusting the skeletal elf perched atop the black Christmas tree. Crimson candles flickered in wrought-iron sconces, casting shadows that danced like spirits.
Abbie Mills entered from the hallway, arms full of vintage stockings and a box of antique ornaments shaped like skulls and broken hearts.
“You sure this place isn’t actually haunted?” she asked, setting the box down with a thud.
Michonne didn’t look up. “Haunted is the point. We’re reclaiming the aesthetic. Besides, if it is haunted, it’ll have to get in line behind my trauma.”
Abbie smirked. “Fair.”
They worked in silence for a moment—two women bound by grief, grit, and the kind of emotional intelligence that made ghosts nervous.
Michonne broke the quiet. “You ever throw a party to forget something, only to remember everything?”
Abbie paused, fingers brushing a cracked ornament. “Only every Founders Day.”
The front door creaked open.
Rick stepped in first—jeans, boots, flannel, and a punch bowl that looked suspiciously like the one from Michonne’s Thanksgiving. His eyes scanned the room, landing on her with a softness that made the candles flicker.
Behind him, Ichabod Crane entered like a man walking into a battlefield—cravat immaculate, coat dusted with snow, eyes sharp and searching. He paused at the threshold, gaze sweeping the room like he was reading a map of emotional fault lines.
Rick nodded at Ichabod. “You the historian?”
Ichabod tilted his head. “You the sheriff?”
“Used to be,” Rick said, setting the punch bowl down. “Now I just show up where Michonne tells me.”
Ichabod’s gaze flicked to Abbie, who was watching him with a mix of fondness and suspicion. “And you, Lieutenant Mills?”
Abbie crossed her arms. “Still the lieutenant. Still the one keeping you from getting possessed.”
Michonne raised an eyebrow. “You two good?”
Abbie shrugged. “We’re fine. Just… ghosts.”
Rick looked at Michonne. “You okay?”
She nodded. “Just… ghosts.”
Ichabod stepped closer to the tree, eyes narrowing at the ornaments. “This estate was built on a burial ground. The architecture is colonial, but the energy is older. Something here remembers.”
Rick frowned. “You saying this place is haunted?”
Ichabod’s voice was quiet. “I’m saying grief leaves footprints. And some houses never stop echoing.”
The lights flickered.
Michonne and Abbie exchanged a look.
The punch bowl bubbled.
And somewhere upstairs, a mirror cracked.
The mirror in the upstairs hallway had been covered with a velvet cloth since the estate changed hands. No one knew why. No one asked. But tonight, the cloth had slipped—just slightly—revealing a sliver of glass that shimmered like water disturbed by memory.
Michonne stood at the base of the stairs, staring up at it. Something in her chest tightened.
Abbie joined her, holding a tray of ghost-shaped cookies. “You feel that?”
Michonne nodded. “Like something’s watching.”
Rick and Ichabod were in the parlor, sipping cider and debating the architectural integrity of the estate. Rick leaned against the fireplace, eyes on Michonne. Ichabod stood stiffly, hands clasped behind his back, gaze flicking between the tree and the shadows.
“Ichabod,” Rick said, voice low. “You said this place remembers. What does that mean?”
Ichabod turned slowly. “It means the veil is thin. And tonight, with the solstice and the emotional weight in this room… it may show us what we’ve forgotten. Or what we’ve refused to see.”
Rick’s jaw clenched. “I’ve seen enough ghosts.”
Ichabod’s eyes softened. “Not all ghosts wear chains. Some wear choices.”
Upstairs, Michonne reached for the velvet cloth. Abbie touched her wrist.
“You sure?”
Michonne’s voice was steady. “I need to know what it wants.”
She pulled the cloth away.
The mirror shimmered—and then fractured.
Not with cracks, but with visions.
Michonne🪞
She sees herself in the kitchen, years ago, laughing with her husband. The light is warm. The air smells like cinnamon. Then the scene shifts—Rick at prom, watching her from across the room, his eyes full of something he never said. She sees herself walking away. She sees the moment she could’ve stayed.
Rick🪞
He sees Lori. The fights. The silence. The way he buried his feelings for Michonne under duty and guilt. He sees prom night—her eyes, her touch, the way she looked at him like he was more than the golden boy. He sees himself choosing silence. He sees himself now, choosing her.
Abbie 🪞
She sees her mother’s warnings. Her own fear of vulnerability. She sees Ichabod bleeding in battle, calling her name. She sees herself walking away from him, again and again, afraid of what it means to stay.
Ichabod 🪞
He sees Grace Dixon. He sees Abbie in every century, every echo. He sees himself writing letters he never sent. He sees her smile, her strength, her refusal to be anyone’s tether. And he sees the moment he knew he loved her—when she didn’t need him, but chose him anyway.
The mirror pulses once, then goes still.
Downstairs, the punch bowl bubbles violently. The candles flicker. The skeletal elf falls from the tree.
Rick rushes to Michonne. “You okay?”
She nods, eyes wet but clear. “I saw it. I saw what I buried.”
Abbie turns to Ichabod. “This place isn’t haunted. We are.”
Ichabod steps closer. “Then let us be the ones to break the curse.”
🪞For those who want the ghosts to kiss, cause haunted girls deserve soft endings too. Click here to read what happened... 😏🎃
Read The Mirror Knows🪞 from the story All Lemons, No Chaser 🍋 by TaraNorthman (BLKGURLSMUSE) with 10 reads. love, sto...
Before vampires were Tumblr-core and voodoo was reduced to plot seasoning, Angela Bassett gave us immortality with bite. In 1995’s Vampire in Brooklyn, she played Detective Rita Vedder—a woman torn between logic and longing, hunted by Eddie Murphy’s Maximillian but never losing her agency. She wasn’t just a love interest—she was the prophecy, the pulse, the one who could choose.
Then came Marie Laveau in American Horror Story: Coven—and the screen shook. Angela didn’t just play a voodoo queen. She embodied vengeance, legacy, and divine wrath. As the immortal nemesis to Kathy Bates’ racist Madame LaLaurie, she delivered every line with venom-laced elegance. Marie wasn’t a trope—she was a reckoning.
Fast forward to American Horror Story: Hotel, and she’s Ramona Royale—a vamp with vengeance, velvet, and venom. She didn’t just share the screen with Lady Gaga—she owned it. Ramona was legacy-coded: a Black woman immortalized not by trauma, but by choice, style, and unapologetic wrath.
“You know I got a hundred years of pain and suffering to give you, baby. I'm gonna make you suffer.” —Marie Laveau, AHS: Coven
Angela Bassett didn’t just survive horror—she redefined it. From Brooklyn brownstones to New Orleans altars, she gave us Black womanhood that was powerful, sensual, and sovereign.
