“Don’t Look in the Mirror”

I was eight the first time I saw it.

The house on Elder Street was old, creaky, and always cold no matter the season. My mother used to say it had "character." But there was one place in that house I never felt safe—the upstairs bathroom. The mirror above the cracked porcelain sink was too tall for me back then, but sometimes, when I stood on my toes, I’d catch the edge of my reflection.

One night, brushing my teeth before bed, I saw a face in the mirror.

But it wasn’t mine.

It looked like me—same hair, same pajamas—but the eyes were wrong. Too wide. Too still. I blinked. It didn’t.

I screamed.

My parents rushed in, and of course, there was nothing there. Just a mirror. Just me.

“Nightmares,” they said. “Imagination.” But I knew better.

I never looked directly into that mirror again. Not for years.

By the time I turned seventeen, we’d moved to another town. I thought I was free of it—whatever it was. The new house was brighter, modern, mirror-safe. Until one day, helping Mom unpack an old box from the attic, I found it.

The mirror.

The same one from Elder Street. The frame was chipped in the same places, the silver worn at the corners. “We brought it with us?” I asked, my voice shaking.

“It’s just a mirror,” she said, brushing it off. “Probably from Grandma’s house.”

No. It was that mirror.

Later that week, when I was home alone, I heard something in the bathroom. A soft scrape. Like nails on glass.

I knew.

I stepped in slowly. The mirror was hanging again—Mom had mounted it in the hallway bathroom.

It was exactly as I remembered. Old. Cold. Watching.

I told myself I’d grown up. I told myself it was just glass and metal.

So I looked.

At first, it was just me.

Then I blinked.

And she didn’t.

Her lips curled into a smile that wasn’t mine.

My reflection raised a hand—but I hadn’t moved. I stepped back. She stayed. Still smiling. Eyes wide and wrong.

She pressed her palm against the inside of the mirror. I saw the glass ripple like water.

And then she spoke.

But her mouth never opened.

Let me out.

It echoed in my head, cold and sharp like ice cracking underfoot.

I stumbled backward and slammed the door shut. My heart wouldn’t slow for hours.

The next few days were worse.

I started seeing her in other mirrors. At school. In my phone’s front camera. Even in the toaster’s reflection. Always smiling. Always watching.

Then came the whispers. In dreams. In the silence. Just four words.

You already did.

I begged my mom to throw the mirror out. She said I was being dramatic.

So I waited until midnight and smashed it myself.

Shards flew like snow. The largest chunk lay face-up on the tile.

My reflection blinked.

And then it screamed.

That night, I woke up to the sound of footsteps.

Not heavy ones. Bare feet. Slow. Careful.

My bedroom door creaked open.

I held my breath.

It was… me.

But not me.

The thing from the mirror stepped into the moonlight, her eyes wide and wild, lips stretched into that same horrible smile.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak.

She leaned in close.

“You looked,” she whispered.

They found me the next morning curled in the closet, shaking. The mirror was gone. So was my reflection.

Now, when I pass a mirror, I don’t see anything at all.

No face. No eyes. Just emptiness.

She walks around in my skin now. Goes to my school. Eats with my family.

But sometimes, if you look close enough, you’ll notice it too.

She doesn’t blink when you do.