The Mirror Has Teeth

I always thought people who covered mirrors at night were just superstitious. The kind who burned sage, whispered to crystals, and talked about “bad energy” like it was weather. Not me. I’m practical. I’ve got a bullet journal, a plant I haven’t killed, and a reasonable fear of overdrafting—not ghosts.

Then the mirror moved.

I live alone. Top-floor studio, no roommates, no pets. Just me and whatever gets dragged home from thrift stores and auction lots. This one? A tall, ornate mirror with a black wooden frame. Ten bucks. It looked expensive, regal even. I thought I scored.

Until I came home one night and it had shifted. I always leaned it against the far wall—across from the window, never the bed. But that evening, there it was: directly facing my mattress. Perfectly centered.

I frowned. Maybe I bumped it? But it was heavy, and the floor was carpeted. Something in me itched. Something old.

I turned it back and forgot about it.

The next morning, it faced the bed again.

This time, something was written in the dust on the frame. Not carved, not scratched—just lightly traced by a fingertip:

STAY

I stood there, frozen, with a toothbrush dangling from my mouth. And still—I didn’t get rid of it. Instead, I cleaned the message off and left it. Like an idiot in every horror movie who deserves what’s coming.

By Wednesday, I started talking to it. I don’t know why. Maybe to prove I wasn’t scared. Maybe because I was.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked.

The mirror didn’t move. My reflection blinked when I did. But then… fog bloomed across the glass. From inside. And a new word formed, slowly, letter by letter:

LISTEN

I didn’t sleep that night.

Thursday, I dreamt of the mirror. I was trapped inside it. The room was mirrored too—gray and lifeless. My reflection stood outside, grinning. She waved.

I didn’t.

Friday, I called my friend Sam.

They came over with coffee and too many questions. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I think so,” I said, as the mirror creaked behind me—loud enough for Sam to hear it too.

We stared at it for hours. Sam dared me to ask it a question.

“Who are you?”

This time the answer came fast. Fog swirled and settled into one word:

ME

We didn’t speak for a while.

Then Sam whispered, “It’s not haunted. It’s you. Or some version of you.”

I didn’t want to believe that. I wanted to believe I was still in control of my own reflection. That it was glass and silver, not something alive.

But the next night, I brought it into my bedroom again. Not by accident. Not because it moved. I wanted to see what would happen.

At 2:13 a.m., the room went cold. The kind of cold that sinks into your lungs and refuses to leave. And then—she moved.

Not me. Her.

My reflection blinked on her own.

She leaned forward. Tilted her head the way I used to as a kid when I was pretending to be curious. She mouthed words I almost understood.

I stepped closer.

She said: “I’m you. From the other side.”

I didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Then she said: “We switched once. When you were small. You cried for three days. Then you forgot.”

And in that moment, I did remember. How I was terrified of mirrors as a child. How I used to cover them with blankets. How I insisted on sleeping with the lights on for nearly a year.

“What do you want?” I asked, voice trembling.

She smiled. Big. Crooked. Wrong.

“To come back.”


Sometimes, the scariest things aren’t ghosts or monsters—they’re the parts of ourselves we buried and forgot. And when the mirror shows you a truth you can’t unsee, you realize: some reflections don’t follow—they lead. And they want in.