Every Mirror in My House Is Showing a Different Reflection

Every Mirror in My House Is Showing a Different Reflection

A psychological horror with alternate realities, identity, and paranoia.

I didn’t notice it at first.

It was subtle just a slight difference in the tilt of my head, or the way the sunlight landed on my cheek. Things you could easily dismiss as imagination, tired eyes, tricks of the glass.

But now I know.

Every mirror in my house is showing a different reflection.

It started two weeks ago. I was brushing my hair in the bathroom when I noticed my reflection blink before I did. Just a fraction of a second early. Like it was anticipating me.

I laughed it off. Sleep deprivation, maybe. I’ve been working too many hours, drinking too much coffee, not enough water. But the next morning, something else changed.

The reflection had a scar a faint, diagonal one across the left eyebrow.

I’ve never had a scar there.

I leaned closer, touched my brow. Smooth. Untouched.

But the woman in the mirror still had it.

She looked back at me calmly, as if she knew I would notice.

After that, it spread.

The hallway mirror near the stairs showed me with shorter hair and no tattoo on my collarbone. I stared at that reflection for five full minutes, then checked my shoulder. My tattoo was right there, exactly as it had always been.

But in that mirror? Nothing. Bare skin.

In the bedroom, the full-length mirror shows me wearing a different outfit than the one I put on. My real self in grey pajamas. The reflection in a blue sundress. When I move, she moves too perfectly synced but not quite right. It’s hard to explain. Like watching someone impersonating you, just off by a second.

I tried replacing the mirrors. Bought new ones. Cleaned them with every chemical I could find. Covered one with a bedsheet.

It didn’t help.

The reflections changed but they were still not me.

Then came the worst one.

The mirror in the attic.

It had been covered for years an old Victorian thing, left by the previous owners. Heavy, dusty, surrounded by cracked wood and the scent of forgotten memories.

I uncovered it out of desperation.

And there she was.

Still me. But… not.

She didn’t copy my movements.

She didn’t blink when I did.

She didn’t smile when I smiled.

She just stared.

Unblinking.

Unmoving.

Studying me.

I tilted my head. She didn’t.

I stepped back. She stepped forward.

That’s when I realized.

She wasn’t a reflection at all.

She was watching me.

Since then, things have unraveled.

The mirrors never match each other.

I’ve counted at least nine versions of myself, each slightly or drastically different:

• One has a nose ring I never got.
• One has green eyes instead of brown.
• One has burn marks across her neck.
• One is visibly pregnant.
• One has no eyes at all.

They all look at me like I’m the one out of place.

And that one in the attic?

She smiles now.

I tried smashing them. Every mirror. Every shard.

But it didn’t fix anything. If anything, it made it worse.

The reflections still appear in windows, TV screens, even puddles. They follow me now. I see them in my periphery, whispering behind glass, mouthing words I can’t hear. I don’t think they want to be confined anymore.

I think they want to switch places.

Last night, I covered every mirror, screen, and reflective surface. I taped black cloth over everything. Sat in silence. Afraid to sleep.

When I woke this morning, my bedroom mirror was uncovered.

And she was standing there.

Not mimicking. Not smiling. Just watching me.

I turned away to run but she moved faster. Her hand pressed against the glass from the inside. A crack formed under her palm. Spider-web thin, but spreading.

I swear I heard it: a whisper through the mirror.

This version is tired. Trade me.

Now I sit in the living room with no mirrors, writing this by candlelight. I don’t know if anyone will believe me. I don’t even know if I believe it myself anymore.

But I feel her. Closer every night.

And if I disappear if you find a woman in my home who looks like me, acts like me, but her eyes seem just a little off…

Don’t trust her.

Because I don’t think I’m the original anymore.

✍️ Writer’s Note:

When you look into a mirror, be careful what looks back.

Not all reflections are yours and some of them want out.