I moved into the old apartment on a rainy Tuesday. It was small, creaky and smelled faintly Of mildew, but it was cheap—and I needed cheap. It has been vacant for years, the landlord told me. I didn't ask why. I should have.
The first few nights were quiet, though I felt a constant sense of being watched. Not an eerie feeling at first—just subtle, like a draft brushing against the back of your neck. The mirror in the bathroom especially made me feel uncomfortable. It wasn't anything special just an old, slightly warped slab of glass. But there was something off about it. It didn't reflect the light the right way. My reflection always looked....delayed. Like it blinked half a second after I did.
I blamed the bad lightening.
Then, things began to change.
It started with small things. I'd place my toothbrush on the sink only to find it on the edge of the tub and hour later. Lights flickered randomly, even though the wiring had just been checked. Sometimes, I'd hear faint tapping behind the mirror. I tried to rationalize everything. Old buildings have quirks, right?
But then came the night I saw it.
I had just stepped out of the shower. The mirror fogged over, as usual, and I wiped it clean with my towel. That's when I saw something behind me.
A figure. Pale. Motionless.
I spun around. Nothing. Just steam and shadows.
I looked back at the mirror—and it was gone. My heart pounded, but I convinced myself it was just a trick of the steam.
That night, I slept with the bathroom door shut tight.
The next day, I stared at the mirror longer than usual. I moved left, then right. Tilted my head. Smiled. My reflection followed, perfectly.
Until it didn't.
For one terrifying second, my reflection didn't move. I turned my head, but the reflection stared straight at me.
Unblinking.
Unmoving.
Then, as if nothing had happened, it snapped back into motion.
I stumbled back, heart hammering, whispering,"No...no, no. Just my imagination."
But it wasn't.
That night, I dreamed of the mirror. I stood in front of it, and my reflection was whispering something I couldn't hear. Its lips moved slowly, over and over.
When I woke up, I found words scrawled across the mirror in consideration.
"LET ME OUT."
I didn't shower that morning.
I started avoiding the bathroom entirely. Brushing my teeth at the kitchen sink. But the whispers didn't stop. I heard them every night. Faint. Hissing. Always from the direction from the mirror.
I asked the landlord id someone had ever died in the apartment.
He hesitated.
"A woman lived there. Long time ago. Quiet. Kept to herself. One day, she just disappeared."
"Disappeared?" I asked.
He nodded. "They never found her. Some say she went mad."
That night, I covered the mirror with a bedsheet. Taped it down. But the next morning, the sheet was on the floor. Tape still on it, untouched. The mirror was fogged, though I hadn't used hot water.
New words had appeared:
"YOU LOOK JUST LIKE ME."
I'd had enough. I grabbed a hammer and smashed the mirror.
It didn't crack.
I hit it again. And again.
Nothing.
It was like the mirror was... watching. Amused.
In a final fit of panic, I turned the lights off and left the apartment.
I stayed with a friend that night. Told him the whole story. He laughed at first, thought I was pranking him. But I begged him to come see it for himself.
We returned the next day.
Everything seemed normal. The mirror looked ordinary.
Until he stood in front of it.
He waved.
His reflection didn't.
He turned to me, face pale. "What the hell is that?"
Then, the reflection smiled.
Neither of us did.
He stepped back. His reflection didn't.
I saw it clearly now, the thing in the mirror wasn't him. Its eyes were darker. Too wide. Its smile was... wrong. Crooked. Hungry.
And then—it reached out.
A pale, grey hand pressed against the other side of the glass, as if it were a window.
A crack formed.
Just one. It spread like veins.
We ran.
He didn't sleep that night. Neither did I. I tried to find answers online, haunted mirrors, cursed objects, anything. One story stood out: about a woman obsessed with her reflection. She believed there was another world inside the mirror. She disappeared one night, after smashing every mirror in her room except one.
They say her soul get trapped inside the last one she stared into.
My mirror.
I decide I'd to leave. But when I returned to pack my things, the mirror was gone.
Just a clean spot on the wall where it used to be.
I didn't understand. Until I saw the hallway mirror outside the apartment.
It was there now.
Waiting.
That night, I stayed in a motel. I tried not to look at any mirrors. Covered the bathroom one with a towel.
But I couldn't sleep.
The whisper came again.
From the mirror in the motel room.
I approached it slowly. The towel slipped.
There she was.
Pale skin. Wide eyes. Smiling.
And then—I saw myself. But it wasn't me.
It blinked.
I didn't.
The mirror doesn't lie.
And neither do the dead.
