The Shadow in the Mirror

I have never been the sort of person to believe in ghosts or the occult. Reason over whispers in the dark; I have always favored logic over anxiety. Nothing could have equipped me for what I witnessed that evening—the night my mirror moved while I did not.

It began with a sense of discomfort, as though someone else was observing me in my flat. Though I laughed it off as old superstition, my mother often cautioned me that mirrors were portals. That preceded my noticing the shadow.

It was my first minor. Just for a moment, I would peek at the mirror in my bedroom and wonder why my reflection stayed longer than it ought to have when I turned away. When it first started, I convinced myself it was simply weariness fooling me. I persuaded myself the second time it was only a trick of the light. Still, the third time I saw it.

Just getting out of the shower, steam curled around the mirror’s margins. My head jerked slightly to the left as I cleared the fog; my reflection stood still. I just have not moved.

A cold crawled along my back. I watched, waited, and moved toward the mirror. My introspection matched me exactly as it ought. I laughed at myself and let out a shaky breath. Perhaps I was worn out.

Then, turning to get my towel, I glimpsed it once more—from the corner of my eye. My mirror still pointed ahead, observing me.

I froze.

Cold sweat pricked my skin, and my pulse hammered in my ears. I turned slowly back toward the mirror. My reply grinned.

I omitted.

My breath seized in my throat as I staggered backward. The head of the reflection slanted slightly to observe me with dark, sunken eyes that were no longer mine. Like I was an invader in my own body, I felt an extreme sensation of wrongness sink over me.

I backed away and shut the bathroom door. My head whirled for a justification. Perhaps I was in a dream. Maybe I was losing my sanity. Deep down, though, I realized something was in the mirror. Not me, either.

I covered every mirror in my flat that evening. Sheets, blankets, even old newspapers—not important. Said, I cannot risk witnessing that once more. Covering them did not, however, stop the sensation of being watched. It made it much more terrible.

I hardly sleep at all. I swore I could hear faint whispering just beyond the curtain of slumber as shadows twisted in the corners of my sight. Still, the worst thing is Dreams.

I found myself in front of the mirror, my reflection back at me empty-eyed and dead. Then it moved forward—out of the mirror—without warning. When I tried to yell, nothing came out. I woke up gasping; it stretched for me, its fingers twining like black smoke around my throat.

I made the error of examining the mirror once more early the next morning. To show to myself that all had been in my mind, I had taken off one of the coverings. But my blood went to ice right away.

Though it was still there, the reflection no longer tracked my motions.

I retreated. It never did. It simply stood there grinning, vacuous, empty smile.

Then, ever so gently, it raised one hand and pressed it against the glass as though trying to define our worlds. My own hands stayed closed at my sides. As the room grew dense and pressed in on me, my breathing grew glabrous.

It then murmured.

“Let me go out.”

Though twisted, stretched, and deformed, I felt like someone had tried to replicate it but lacked a clear grasp of how human sounds worked. With my heart thumping fiercely in my chest, I staggered backward and slammed my bedroom door closed.

I owed it to get out. I knew I couldn’t stay here; I knew not where or how. I snatched my car keys, ripped open the front door, and shot. I felt that thing burrowing under my skin like invisible fingers pressing against me throughout.

For hours, I drove aimlessly while my thoughts ran with what I had witnessed. Had I gone crazy?

Was I caught in some waking fantasy? Alternatively, worse: had I let something into my house?

But suddenly, the idea hit me like a gut-reversing blow.

Had I ever really left at all?

Over me came a cold, creeping awareness. In my apartment. My contemplation. One’s dream. What if, instead of the one who left, I were absent?

Breathing heavily, I drew into a petrol station. My hands shook as I went for my phone to call someone—anyone. Still, I spotted my image in the car’s little side mirror before I could call.

My heart came to a stop.

The mouth of the reflection moved.

You’re late too late.

It then smirked.

Blinking in panic, I glanced again and saw just me.

Otherwise, was it?

That evening, I had no idea what had transpired. Whether I escaped or if I was the one caught is unknown. But mirrors seem different ever since then. Incorrect.

And occasionally, just occasionally—I notice it watching me. Delaying.

It might step through once more one day.

And the next time, I might not flee quickly enough.