What My Grandmother Whispered Before She Died Still Haunts Me Today.

When someone is about to die, you expect the parting words to be poetic. Peaceful, perhaps. Last prayers. A simple “I love you.”

My grandmother gave me none of that.

Instead, she whispered something so strange, so haunting, that I’ve spent the last five years trying to forget it—and failing miserably.

Let me start at the beginning.

My grandmother, Margaret Rose, was a quiet, beautiful woman. She wore pearls even when she was alone in the house and folded her napkins with military precision. But she also had a sharp tongue, a strange fascination with antique mirrors, and a locked drawer in her bedroom that she never let anyone touch.

As a child, I admired her. As a teenager, I was a little afraid of her. As an adult, I respected her. But I never truly understood it.

When I got the call that she was in the hospital, I left work in the middle of a meeting and drove three hours nonstop. She was 87, frail, and had been declining for months. We all knew the end was near. But no one told me that her mind was slipping.

She was awake when I arrived, but barely.

The room was dim, the machines beeping softly, a thin line of sunlight filtering through the blinds. Her skin was transparent, her hands were cold.

She opened her eyes as I walked in.

“Lena,” she whispered. “My beautiful girl.”

I took her hand. “Hello, Grandma, I’m here.”

She squeezed my fingers weakly, then pulled me closer.

And only then did she whisper.

“Don’t trust the girl in the mirror.”

I blinked.

"Grandma?"

Her lips trembled, her eyes flickering to the small hospital mirror above the sink.

"That's not me."

And then… she was gone.

Her eyes remained open but something dimmed in them.

I stood there, stunned, still holding her hand.

"Don't trust the girl in the mirror."

What did she mean?

I tried to brush it off. Maybe it was dementia. Confusion. A strange dream bleeding into waking life.

But something about her tone… wasn't confused. It was certain. Scared, even.

I couldn't shake it.

Two weeks later, I was helping her clean her house. Alone.

It was quiet, eerie. Dust had settled in the corners. Mirrors—there were so many. She had one in every room. Oval ones. Tall standing ones. Golden ones. Torn ones. Antique ones. Some faced walls. Some were laced.

And then the closed drawer.

It was in her vanity, a heavy old thing with lion feet and a triple-pane mirror. I remembered asking about the drawer when I was little. She always changed the subject.

Now, I had a chance to open it.

The key was tucked inside her jewelry box, hidden in a false bottom.

Inside the drawer were three things.

1. A letter, sealed with yellow and red wax.
2. A black-and-white photograph of a little girl standing in front of the mirror—but the girl in the reflection was smiling too much.
3. A hand mirror, wrapped in cloth and taped shut.

I opened the last letter.

It was dated 1949.

"If you're reading this, it means I'm gone. And I'm sorry.

The mirror is cursed. It's not poetic or symbolic. It's literal. The girl in the reflection is not a reflection at all.

I first saw her when I was nine. At first she imitated me. Then before I could do it, she started moving.

She called herself Margot.

She said we were one soul divided into two - but only one can live a real life.

So I trapped her. Locked her in the mirror. But she still speaks. Still sees.

Never open the hand mirror.

And if you see her again... run.

I stared at the letter, heartbroken.

Margot?

The girl in the picture… had my grandmother’s eyes. But the smile was wrong.

And that mirror… still taped shut, wrapped tightly like something dangerous.

I should have burned it.

But instead, I unwrapped it.

I wish I hadn’t.

At first, it looked ordinary. A tarnished silver hand mirror with ornate carvings of vines and thorns around the rim. I tilted it, half laughing at how silly it all was.

Until the girl blinked.

I hadn’t.

She blinked.

I screamed and dropped the mirror. It didn’t break. I backed away, shaking.

Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I was sleep-deprived.

I picked it up again.

This time, I stared.

The girl in the mirror moved again—before I could. Her tone slowly changed to a smile. Her eyes lit up.

And she spoke these words:

"Take it."

I screamed, threw the mirror in the trash, locked it in the garage, and left the house that night.

But the nightmares began immediately.

Every time I dream of her standing in front of the mirror, she stands behind me. Her eyes are black. Her voice rings in my ear:

"You saw me, now you're mine."

It's been three years since Grandma died.

I still dream of her whispering: Don't trust the girl in the mirror.

I moved across the country. I sold the house. But I've never had another mirror. Not a bathroom. Not even a phone case with a reflective back.

And yet, sometimes, through the windows or the screens, I catch a glimpse of someone watching me—someone smiling before I do.

I don’t know what Grandma did to trap her.

I just know… she didn’t finish.

And now?

I think Margot is waiting.

She misses you."