The Stranger in the Mirror

It was a dreary, rain-soaked evening when I first noticed something unusual. The power had gone out, and the only light in my small apartment came from the flickering candles I had scattered around. The storm outside howled as if it had a voice, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—was watching me.

I tried to focus on my book, but my gaze kept drifting to the large antique mirror hanging in my living room. It had been a gift from my late grandmother, its ornate frame chipped and weathered. Tonight, though, the glass seemed darker, almost as if it were a portal to another world. My reflection stared back, but there was something…off. I couldn’t quite place it, but it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Shaking off my unease, I decided to make some tea. As I walked to the kitchen, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I froze. The mirror. My reflection had moved—but I hadn’t.

Heart pounding, I turned back to face the mirror. Everything appeared normal. My reflection mimicked my every move, as it should. I laughed nervously, chalking it up to my imagination or the dim candlelight. But the feeling of being watched lingered.

Later that night, as I lay in bed, sleep eluded me. My mind kept replaying the odd moment with the mirror. Was it a trick of the light? Or was I simply tired and seeing things? I resolved to check the mirror again in the morning, when sunlight would surely dispel my irrational fears.

The next day dawned bright and clear, and I almost laughed at myself for being so paranoid. But as I approached the mirror, the unease returned. This time, I noticed something even stranger. The reflection of the room behind me was subtly wrong. The arrangement of furniture was slightly different, and the shadows didn’t match the light source. It was as if the mirror reflected a version of my apartment that didn’t exist.

Curiosity outweighed my fear, and I decided to test it. I placed a small vase on the table in front of the mirror and stepped back. In the reflection, the vase was there—but it was shattered. I turned around, and the vase was perfectly intact. A chill ran down my spine.

Over the next few days, the discrepancies grew more alarming. Reflections of people appeared in the mirror, standing behind me when I was alone. They were shadowy figures, indistinct but undeniably there. My reflection, too, began to behave strangely. It would linger a moment too long after I moved, or its expression would shift into something I wasn’t feeling. I started avoiding the mirror altogether, draping a sheet over it in an attempt to block whatever was happening.

One night, however, I woke to the sound of shattering glass. My heart raced as I realized it had come from the living room. Grabbing a flashlight, I cautiously crept out of my bedroom. The sheet I’d covered the mirror with was on the floor, and the mirror itself was intact but pulsing faintly, as if it were alive.

And then I saw her.

My reflection stepped out of the mirror. Not climbed, not crawled—stepped. She was me in every way, down to the scar on my left hand. But her eyes were colder, her posture more menacing. She smirked at my stunned expression.

“Finally,” she said, her voice a distorted echo of my own. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

Before I could react, she lunged at me, grabbing my wrist with a grip that felt like ice. We struggled, and in the chaos, I managed to push her back towards the mirror. Her expression twisted into one of rage as she was sucked back into the glass with a scream that made my blood run cold.

The mirror shattered into a thousand pieces, each shard reflecting her angry face before going dark. I stood there, trembling, as the storm outside finally began to subside.

In the weeks that followed, I got rid of every mirror in my apartment. I told myself it was over, that whatever had haunted me was gone. But sometimes, in the corner of my eye, I see her. Waiting. Watching. And I wonder—what will happen if she escapes again?