Don’t Read My Story

Don’t Read My Story

by Tariq Shah

Don’t read this story.

Seriously. Don’t.

I know that’s a strange way to start a piece of writing, but I need to be honest with you from the beginning. This isn’t a story. It’s a warning. A plea. A desperate attempt to stop something I may have accidentally set loose.

It all started as a joke — a writing prompt, actually. My creative writing professor had given us the assignment: “Write a story with a title that makes people curious.”

Naturally, I went for reverse psychology. “Don’t Read My Story.” Catchy, right?

I jotted it down in my old, spiral-bound notebook at my favorite café, left it on the table when I went to refill my coffee, and when I came back — it was gone.

I didn’t think much of it. Maybe someone thought it was theirs. Or maybe the barista threw it out.

But the next morning, the notebook was on my bed.

Not on my nightstand. Not by the door. On my bed.

The exact same one, down to the coffee ring on the cover and the little tear on the bottom corner. Only now, my single line — “Don’t Read My Story” — had more words underneath it. Words I hadn’t written.

In messy, jagged handwriting were the following lines:

“I read it. I wish I hadn’t. She’s awake now.”

My first instinct? A friend was playing a prank. I even texted my roommate, thinking he’d snuck in while I was asleep.

“No idea what you're talking about,” he replied. “I’m out of town until Thursday.”

I flipped through the rest of the notebook. Page after page had been filled with frantic writing. Someone’s journal, maybe. All warning about a figure they called Mira.

A woman, but not. A shadow with eyes. A whisper in reflections. According to these scribbles, she doesn’t exist in flesh — she lives in stories. In this story.

And every time someone reads about her… she becomes stronger.

I rolled my eyes. This had to be a joke.

But that night, I dreamed of mirrors. Shattered ones. A voice humming behind the glass. A voice saying, “Keep writing.”

I woke up with a start. I was sweating. My mirror — the tall one near my desk — was fogged, as if someone had breathed on it.

Except I hadn’t even been near it.

Things escalated after that.

No matter what I did, the story kept spreading. I didn’t share it, but somehow it kept appearing — on forums, on blogs, even printed on a flyer I saw posted downtown.

And every version had the same title: Don’t Read My Story.

Worse, the notebook kept coming back. Burn it? It reappears. Trash it? It shows up under my pillow. Rip the pages out? They rewrite themselves.

I started keeping track of who read it. My cousin, Sam, laughed when I told him the story was cursed. “Ooooh, spooky mirror lady,” he mocked.

That night, he texted me at 3:12 a.m.
“She’s outside the mirror. She knows my name.”

He hasn’t been seen since.

I told the police. They thought I was unstable. Probably not wrong.

But I’m not making this up. I swear to you. I’ve watched my reflection blink when I didn’t. I’ve seen something standing just beyond the bathroom mirror — a woman-shaped smudge that doesn’t wipe off.

I can’t even stop writing. The words pour out, like someone else is moving my hands. Mira wants this story told. She feeds on it.

So here I am. Finishing this cursed thing because I don’t know what else to do.

Because maybe if I write it, she’ll stop. Maybe if I warn others, she’ll leave me alone.

Maybe.

But probably not.

She’s with you now. Watching you read these words. Feeding on your interest. She likes attention. Likes being known.

She lives in every glance you throw at a mirror. In every story you read and dismiss as fiction.

So whatever you do — don’t look behind you.

And definitely, definitely…
Don’t read this story again.


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Author’s Note:
Yes, I know the title told you not to read it. And I know you did anyway. But if your mirror starts acting strange, or your reflection seems a second out of sync — I suggest you forget this ever happened.

Close your screen. Breathe.
And for your own sake… don’t write about her.