The Mirror

The mirror stood out to Shelly the moment she entered the antique shop. It was tall and oval, its frame a tarnished silver filigree that curled into intricate patterns like frozen vines. A faint crack ran along its upper edge, a flaw that seemed to add to its allure rather than diminish it. The shopkeeper, a thin man with a stooped back and a perpetual frown, noticed her lingering gaze.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said, his voice a raspy whisper. “A unique piece. Came from an old estate sale.”

Shelly nodded, her fingers brushing the cold metal frame. “How much?”

He hesitated, glancing at her as if sizing her up. “Two hundred,” he said finally. “But I’ll warn you, it’s… peculiar.”

Shelly raised an eyebrow. “Peculiar?”

He cleared his throat. “Strange things happen around mirrors like this. People say they’re cursed, but it’s probably just old superstitions.”

Shelly laughed softly. “I’ll take it.”

The mirror fit perfectly in Shelly’s bedroom, propped against the wall across from her bed. It made the space feel larger, its antique charm adding a touch of elegance to the otherwise modern room. That first night, she stared at it for a long time before turning off the light. Its surface seemed almost alive in the dim glow of the streetlamp outside, shadows swirling faintly as if caught within the glass.

The first incident happened two nights later. Shelly was brushing her hair before bed, watching her reflection move rhythmically in the mirror. She blinked, and for a fleeting moment, the reflection didn’t blink back. Instead, it tilted its head slightly as if observing her with a curiosity that wasn’t her own.

Shelly froze, her breath caught in her throat. She stepped closer, but the reflection mirrored her movements perfectly now. She laughed nervously, shaking her head. “Too many late nights,” she muttered to herself, switching off the light.

Over the next few days, Shelly began to notice other oddities. The mirror’s surface sometimes seemed clouded, as if a thin mist clung to the glass, though the air in her room was clear. Once, she caught a glimpse of something in the reflection—a dark shape moving behind her—but when she turned, the room was empty.

The strangest moment came one afternoon as Shelly was getting ready for work. She stood before the mirror, adjusting her blouse, when she noticed a woman standing behind her. The woman was young, her face pale and framed by dark hair, her clothes old-fashioned, a long dress with lace sleeves.

Shelly spun around, her heart pounding, but there was no one there. She turned back to the mirror. The woman was gone.

Shelly couldn’t shake the image of the woman. She told herself it was her imagination, a trick of light and fatigue. But that night, the dream came. She was in a dimly lit room, unfamiliar yet unsettlingly vivid. The young woman was there, standing by a window with tears streaming down her face. She held a letter in trembling hands. Then, as Shelly watched helplessly, the woman crumpled to the floor, clutching her chest as her breath hitched and stopped.

Shelly woke with a start, her heart racing. The mirror loomed in the darkness, its surface faintly glowing as if lit from within. She turned on the lamp, but the room was still. The mirror reflected only her wide-eyed expression and the unmade bed.

The next morning, Shelly called the antique shop. The shopkeeper’s voice was cautious.

“I told you it was peculiar,” he said.

“What’s wrong with it?” Shelly demanded.

He hesitated. “Some say it’s haunted. That it shows… echoes. Memories of the people who owned it before. Their final moments, to be precise.”

“That’s absurd,” Shelly said, though her voice wavered.

“I’d return it if I were you,” he said. “Not everyone can handle what they see.”

Shelly didn’t return the mirror. She told herself she wouldn’t let superstition dictate her decisions. But as the days went by, the visions grew worse. The reflections no longer matched her reality. Instead, they showed fragments of scenes that didn’t belong to her: a hand clutching a bloody knife, a child crying in a corner, a man pacing a dim hallway, his face twisted in anguish.

One evening, as she sat on her bed staring at the mirror, she felt a compulsion she couldn’t resist. She stood and placed her hand on the glass. It was cold, far colder than it should have been. Suddenly, the surface rippled like water, and Shelly felt herself pulled forward.

She found herself in a room she’d never seen before, dimly lit by a single flickering candle. A man sat at a desk, his head in his hands, the air heavy with despair. On the desk lay an open ledger and a revolver. Shelly tried to speak, to call out, but no sound left her lips. The man didn’t seem to see her.

He stood suddenly, grabbing the revolver. Shelly wanted to look away, but her body wouldn’t obey. She watched as the man raised the weapon to his temple, his hand trembling. There was a deafening crack, and everything went black.

Shelly woke on the floor of her bedroom, gasping for air. The mirror loomed above her, its surface calm and still. She scrambled to her feet, her legs shaky. She wanted to smash it, to rid herself of the cursed object, but something stopped her. It wasn’t fear. It was curiosity.

Over the following weeks, the mirror consumed her. She stopped going to work, her days and nights blending into a haze of fragmented visions. Each time she touched the glass, she was transported to another moment, another life, another death. A woman drowning in a lake, her arms thrashing against the dark water. An elderly man clutching a photo as he slipped away in his sleep. A young boy, alone in a dark alley, the glint of a blade flashing before the world faded to black.

Shelly felt their fear, their sorrow, their final breaths. It was unbearable, yet she couldn’t stop. The mirror had become a window into the past, and she was its unwilling voyeur.

One night, as Shelly stared at the mirror, her reflection smiled. It wasn’t her smile. It was cold and cruel, and it sent a chill down her spine. She backed away, her pulse racing, but the reflection didn’t move. It stepped forward, pressing its hand against the inside of the glass.

“Stop,” Shelly whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Leave me alone.”

The reflection tilted its head, studying her like a predator eyeing its prey. Then, with a sudden, violent motion, it slammed its fist against the glass. The surface cracked, splintering into a web of jagged lines.

Shelly screamed and turned away, covering her ears. When she dared to look back, the mirror was intact. Her reflection was normal.

The next morning, Shelly called a moving company. She packed hurriedly, avoiding the bedroom as much as possible. But as she carried the last box to her car, she glanced up at the window. The mirror was there, propped against the wall where she had left it. For a moment, she thought she saw a face in the glass—a woman’s face, pale and expressionless.

She drove away without looking back.

The house sat empty for months before the next tenants arrived. A young couple, eager to start fresh, fell in love with its charm and history. They moved in on a sunny spring morning, their laughter filling the empty rooms. In the corner of the bedroom, they found the mirror, still standing, its silver frame catching the light.

“It’s beautiful,” the woman said, running her hand along the filigree. “Let’s keep it.”

Her husband hesitated but nodded. “Sure. What’s the harm!”

As they carried the mirror to its new spot, a faint mist swirled within the glass, unnoticed. Once they had set it against the wall, the woman stepped back to admire it. For a fleeting moment, she froze. Reflected in the glass was a figure—a woman with tear-streaked cheeks and wild eyes, clutching at her chest as if gasping for air. She looked so real, so close, but then the image faded, leaving only their reflections.

“Did you see that?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“See what?” her husband asked, glancing at the mirror, which now reflected nothing but the room.

The woman shook her head, forcing a laugh. “Nothing. Must’ve been a trick of the light.”

As they left the room, the mirror’s surface darkened slightly, a faint silhouette of Shelly’s anguished face lingering before dissolving back into the depths of the glass.