There’s someone living in my mirror
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.