Every Mirror in My House Reflects a Different Version of Me

Every Mirror in My House Reflects a Different Version of Me

by[Javid khan]

The first time I noticed something was wrong with the mirrors, it was subtle.

I had just moved into the old Victorian house on Ashwood Lane—a fixer-upper with enough creaks and drafty windows to qualify as "charming" only to real estate agents and masochists. But it was cheap, and after the chaos of my last year, I needed solitude. The kind that didn't ask questions.

The bathroom mirror was the first to betray me.

I stood brushing my teeth one night, bleary-eyed and half-asleep, when I noticed my reflection blinked out of sync—a half-second too late, as if thinking about it first. I chuckled, rubbed my eyes, and blamed it on exhaustion. But the next morning, it happened again. This time, I waved. My reflection stared back... motionless.

I didn’t brush it off so easily after that.

I started testing every mirror in the house—there were many. Bedroom, hallway, attic, even one behind the basement door that I hadn’t noticed until the third day. Each one behaved differently. In the hallway mirror, my reflection wore glasses. I don’t wear glasses. In the bedroom, he had a scar above his eyebrow. In the attic, he wore a wedding ring. I’ve never been married.

I convinced myself it was stress. Isolation. A psychological hiccup.

But it wasn’t.

One night, I brought a marker and wrote “I AM REAL” on my bathroom mirror, just to feel grounded. The next morning, the writing was gone. I checked the back of the mirror. Clean.

But the reflection in the basement mirror had something else scrawled across it—in reverse letters I had to puzzle out:

“NO, I AM.”

By the second week, the versions of me in the mirrors weren’t just different—they were alive.

They moved when I didn’t. They watched me. Sometimes they smiled when they shouldn’t have. In the hallway mirror, the version with glasses would pace like he was stuck. In the attic mirror, the married version would whisper, but I couldn’t hear through the glass. I watched his lips move. I swore he said: “Don’t trust him.”

I started covering the mirrors with bedsheets.

But they’d still be uncovered when I returned.

It all escalated the night I came home late from the grocery store. The house felt... off. Colder. Like someone had just exhaled over every surface. I dropped the bag of apples in the kitchen when I saw it:

My reflection in the window over the sink was smiling.

I wasn’t.

I backed away slowly, but I couldn’t look away. Then he raised his hand and mimed turning a doorknob.

That’s when I heard it—a click from the basement door.

I didn’t want to go down there.

But I had to.

The basement light didn’t work. I used the flashlight app on my phone, every step creaking beneath me. The basement mirror was uncovered again. My reflection looked different now—older. Tired. But he was holding something I wasn’t: a key.

He mouthed something slowly. I recognized it this time.

“Trade.”

I turned to run.

But something slammed the door shut behind me.

For a moment, it was just me. And him. Staring at each other. Our breath fogging the mirror in unison.

And then... the glass began to melt.

It didn’t shatter. It bled, warping and stretching like heated plastic until a hand reached through. His hand.

I scrambled backward, tripping over a pipe and slamming my shoulder against the wall. The reflection’s hand reached further—too long, too thin—and then the second hand came through. He was pulling himself out.

That’s when I screamed.

The next thing I remember was waking up in my bed. Daylight. Silence.

Maybe it was a dream.

But as I went to the bathroom to splash water on my face, I froze.

The mirror showed a clean-shaven man. I have a beard.

He stared at me. Smiled gently.

And walked away.

Inside the mirror.

I touched my face.

The stubble was gone.

I opened the drawer. A wedding ring sat neatly beside the toothbrush.

My phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

Text message:

“How’s my life treating you? Don’t break it this time.”

I dropped the phone.

Now I leave every mirror uncovered.

It doesn’t matter.

They’re always watching.

Sometimes, I see him. The man with the beard—my old reflection. Trapped. Pacing in the hallway mirror now. Watching me with fear in his eyes.

I think I understand now.

Every mirror in my house reflected a different version of me.

Until one of them got tired of watching.

And decided he wanted to live.