u/Strangeandunusual88

I used to think mirrors were harmless bits of décor. Just glass and silver. A vanity tool to reassure you that you look presentable, or to remind you to fix your hair or wipe mascara smudges from under your eyes.

I don’t think that anymore.

The first time something felt wrong, it was so tiny, so easy to dismiss, that I convinced myself I imagined it. I was brushing my teeth before bed, half-asleep, when I heard a noise in the hallway. I turned my head toward the sound, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw my reflection turn a fraction of a second after I did.

I snorted at myself. You need sleep, hun. Your eyes are playing tricks on you.
I went to bed without giving it a second thought.

The next morning, getting ready for my run, I stood in front of the mirror again, combing my hair into a ponytail. As I lifted the comb to smooth out the stray bumps, my reflection’s hand rose a beat too late.

I froze.

I leaned closer to the mirror. I was fully awake this time. No excuses.

My reflection leaned in too, but its eyes didn’t quite line up with mine. They were slightly off, like someone wearing a mask that didn’t fit right.

I stepped back in shock.

My reflection didn’t.

It stayed pressed against the glass, its breath fogging the inside surface.

That’s when I realised the impossible.
It wasn’t copying me anymore. It was watching me.

I threw a towel over the mirror and bolted out of the bathroom.

A few seconds later, I heard a soft scraping sound. Then a dull thud.

The towel was on the floor.

The mirror was uncovered.

And there were handprints on the inside of the glass.

The fingers were too long. The palms too narrow. They weren’t mine.

Over the next week, things escalated. I only used the bathroom when absolutely necessary, and I never looked directly at the mirror. Even so, I could feel it watching me. Out of the corner of my eye, I’d catch the reflection following me with its gaze. Then its head began to tilt, slow, unnatural angles, as if trying to meet my eyes.

I needed to get out. But I had nowhere to go. All my classmates had gone home for the summer. My parents were away for the weekend, and I didn’t have a spare key to their place. I couldn’t afford a hotel on a student wage. Short of sleeping on the street, I was stuck until they returned.

So I made a routine.

Bathroom. Two minutes max. No eye contact with the mirror.
Door closed. Chair wedged under the handle.
Straight to bed.
Repeat in the morning.
Stay out all day.
Come home only to eat and sleep.

My parents would be home in 24 hours. I could survive one more night.

That night, after my routine, I lay in bed trying to fall asleep when I heard it. A dragging sound. Slow. Heavy. Coming from the bathroom.

I peeked over the covers to check the door.

The bathroom door was open.

My stomach dropped. I must have forgotten to wedge the chair under the handle in my rush to escape the mirror.

I climbed out of bed, heart pounding, and crept toward the door. The chair sat next to it, untouched.

I just needed to put the chair in place. Then I could run back to bed and wait for morning.

That’s when I heard it.

The unmistakable sound of a finger drawing across glass.

Don’t look. Don’t look. DON’T LOOK.

But instinct won. My eyes followed the sound.

And written in the condensation on the mirror was a single word.

SOON.

I screamed. I grabbed the nearest object, the chair, and hurled it at the mirror. It shattered into a thousand glittering pieces, falling in slow motion like confetti.

I ran out of my apartment barefoot, in my pyjamas, and huddled in the communal stairwell until morning. When my parents finally answered the phone, I begged them to come get me.

I never went back inside.

My dad went to the apartment to collect my things and clean up the broken glass. When he returned, he asked how my feet were holding up.

“My feet?” I asked.

“You cut them on the glass,” he said. “There were bloody footprints leading out of the bathroom.”

I stared at him.

I lifted my feet. The soles were clean.

When I was around four years old, I had an imaginary friend called Tom.
At first, nobody thought much of it. My aunt had recently had a baby named Thomas, so my parents assumed I’d borrowed the name from there.
I spent hours playing with my Fisher-Price toy kitchen, making Tom cups of tea and slices of pretend cake while chatting away to him about my day.
My parents thought it was sweet and would often ask questions about him to see where my imagination would take the story.
They assumed Tom was a little boy around my age.
One day my dad jokingly asked, “So who is this Tom then?”
“He’s my husband,” I replied matter-of-factly.
My dad found this hilarious.
“Oh really? And what does your husband do for a living?”
I answered, “He used to sell fruit and vegetables to the local market. But since he’s dead now, he just stays at home.”
My dad was completely caught off guard. He’d been expecting me to say something like a knight, a pirate, or an astronaut. Not a deceased greengrocer.
My mum was less amused than my dad. She often found me sitting under the dining table whispering and giggling to someone she couldn’t see. At night she would hear me chatting away in my bedroom long after I should have been asleep.
My dad was a complete sceptic and insisted it was just a phase. I was the youngest child and my older siblings were at school all day. He thought I was simply creating a companion for myself.
When I started school, things actually got worse for a while.
I cried every day and told my parents that Tom was cross with me for leaving him.
Then, gradually, I stopped mentioning him.
I stopped asking them to save him a seat at the table. I stopped setting a place for him at dinner. Eventually Tom disappeared from my life completely.
The strange thing is that I have absolutely no memory of him now.
I remember the toy kitchen. I remember having tea parties. But I have no recollection whatsoever of Tom.
Over the years my parents would occasionally bring him up when talking about funny things I did as a child, but to me it always felt like they were describing someone else’s memory.
Then, around 35 years later, something happened.
My dad was visiting our elderly neighbour after she’d injured her ankle. While they were chatting, she started talking about growing up in the area.
“I’ve lived in this town all my life,” she told him.
She explained that before the houses were built, the land had been allotments.
“My father had an allotment here,” she said. “The men used to grow fruit and vegetables and sell them to the local market.”
My dad immediately remembered what I’d said as a child.
The neighbour went to a dresser, picked up a framed photograph, and handed it to him.
“That’s my father,” she said.
My dad looked at the photograph and then carefully asked:
“Was your father’s name Tom by any chance?”
She smiled.
“Well, Thomas,” she replied. “But everyone called him Tom.”
My dad said the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
To this day, neither of us has an explanation.
I had never met her father. He had died long before I was born.
But somehow, at four years old, my imaginary husband was a dead man named Tom who sold fruit and vegetables to the local market.
I’ve never forgotten my parents telling me that story, even if I’ve completely forgotten Tom himself.

Hello,

I am new here. I am starting a podcast where I will be telling chilling stories (round a campfire style) If there is anyone here who would be kind enough to share a story with me that they would not mind me retelling on my podcast I will credit you as being the original author.

I’m looking for short stories, folklore, urban legends and true paranormal experiences.

Thanks so much in advance :)