The Mirror of the Lair

When I first found the mirror, it was hidden behind a tattered curtain in the attic of my grandmother’s house. I had been sent there to clean out her belongings after her passing, a task I approached with equal measure of sadness and duty. She had lived alone for decades, in a grand but dilapidated Victorian house on the edge of a forgotten town, and dust had claimed almost every surface.

I didn’t even notice the mirror at first. The attic was littered with boxes, old trunks, and moth-eaten clothes. But something drew me to that corner—perhaps a draft of cool air, or perhaps the faint scent of something sweet, like rotting honey. I gasped as I pulled back the curtain.

The mirror was enormous, framed with elaborate gold filigree that twisted into strange, almost creeping shapes. Despite years of neglect, its surface was spotless, revealing the attic with impossible clarity. It felt alive.

An old slip of yellowed paper was tucked behind the frame, in my grandmother’s careful hand:

“Mirror of the lair. Do not look too long.”

I shivered.

I tried to hear its warning. I really did. But there was something hypnotic about the mirror. Every time I climbed the creaking attic stairs to sort through another box, I would catch a glimpse of myself in it—except it never seemed quite right. Sometimes the reflection seemed happier than I felt, other times it seemed as if it were hearing something I couldn’t hear.

After a week of avoiding it, curiosity overcame fear. One afternoon, I sat in front of the mirror and peered into its depths.

At first, it was routine: my tired face, dusty hair, the dim light of the attic. But then the picture changed. In the mirror, my eyes lit up, almost predatory, and my smile sharpened, curved at the corners in a way that made my stomach turn. I tried to look away, but the mirror held me.

I don’t know how long I was trapped in his gaze, but when I finally broke free, the sun had set and my hands were cold. My phone showed that hours had passed, although I only remembered staring for a minute or two.

From then on, I began to see the mirror in my dreams. I would wake up drenched in sweat, the memory of a voice echoing in my mind:

“Let me in.”

I tried to convince myself that it was stress, or the trickle of grief after losing my grandmother. But things started happening around the house. First, small things – moving from where I had left them, the attic door opening by itself. Then worse. I heard footsteps on the attic floor at night.

One night, unable to bear the stress any longer, I decided to cover the mirror again. As I lifted the moth-eaten curtain, I caught a last, brief glimpse of my reflection – and froze.

It wasn’t me.

Not at all.

The person in the mirror wore my face, but the eyes were wrong—too wide, too dark, shining with a cruel hunger. And the smile was the same sharp one, knowing it was the smile I had seen before. I stepped back, but the figure leaned forward, pressing its palm to the other side of the glass, as if trying to reach me.

I pulled back the curtain in fear and ran, my heart pounding.

The next day, desperate for answers, I dug through my grandmother’s journals. She was a collector of rare, sometimes secret objects, a hobby I had always dismissed as harmless. Buried in the pages was a line that made my blood run cold:

“The mirror is a hunter. It doesn’t show who you are, but who you can become—if you let it in.”

I couldn’t sleep that night. Every corner of the house breathed like a mirror. And the voice came back, stronger than ever:

“Let me in.”

I tried to leave. I packed my bag and headed downstairs, but as I reached the front door, the lights went out. The air was dead, as if something was holding my breath. I turned to see that the attic door was open, and a glimpse of gold from the mirror was calling me back.

As if the house itself would not let me go.

With trembling steps, I walked back upstairs, determined to finish it. I would break the mirror, I told myself, and be free. But as I picked up the hammer, I heard my grandmother’s voice in my memory:

“Don’t fight it, it grows stronger with struggle.”

What did it mean?

The voice from the mirror was now echoing inside my skull:

“Let me in.”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Slowly, I approached the mirror, and opened my eyes. My reflection—or the thing I wore on my face—was waiting, smiling with calm, unbearable confidence.

“Why?” I demanded. “Why me?”

Her smile widened.

“Because you’re hollow,” she whispered. “I can fill you.”

A tear slid down my cheek. All my hidden fears, my regrets, my sorrow—it knew every one of them. The mirror wanted to feed on them, to twist them, to make me its own.

No

I took a step back, still holding the hammer, and then did something that sent a scream through every nerve in my body. I turned my face away from the mirror, refusing to look at its face any longer. I forced myself to go outside, ignoring its pleas, ignoring the commotion in the house.

I left.

I closed the attic door behind me, nailed it shut, and threw away the key.

It's been three weeks now. Sometimes when the house is quiet, I hear a soft tapping sound from above, like fingernails scraping the other side of glass. And sometimes, in my dreams, I still see that twisted smile.

But I'll never go back.

Because I know a terrible truth now - the mirror is still waiting, there in the darkness, eager to welcome me back into my home.