The Mirror in Apartment 3B

BY SHAFI ULHAQ

When I moved into Apartment 3B, the mirror above the fireplace was already there. Heavy and old, with vines etched into the bronze frame, it didn’t match anything else in the unit. I tried to take it down once, but it wouldn’t budge. Not with a screwdriver, not with a crowbar. The thing might as well have been soldered to the wall.

My neighbor, Mrs. Calloway, saw me struggling one afternoon and gave me a tight-lipped smile. “Oh, honey,” she said, “that mirror’s older than this building. Best to leave it be. Everyone who’s lived here just learns to live with it.”

I should’ve taken that as a warning.

The first week, I barely noticed the mirror. I was more focused on settling in—unpacking, getting used to the creaky floorboards, learning which faucets made noise at night. But by the second week, something felt…off. Like I was being watched.

One night, I passed by the mirror and saw movement—not my own reflection, but something behind me. I turned quickly, but the room was empty. I chalked it up to nerves. The city had been draining me. I’d convinced myself that solitude would bring peace.

It didn’t.

Soon, the mirror began to misbehave. I’d see my reflection lagging behind, blinking a second too late, or turning its head when I hadn’t moved. One night, while brushing my teeth, I noticed my reflection smiling at me—wide and toothy—while I remained still. That night, I screamed so loud, the neighbor upstairs banged on the floor.

I covered the mirror with an old bedsheet. The next morning, it was uncovered. I told myself I must’ve done it in my sleep. But I started locking my bedroom door at night—and still, every morning, the mirror was bare again.

My cat, Lacey, started acting strange too. She’d hiss and spit at the fireplace. One time I found her scratching at the mirror’s frame until her paws bled. I took her to the vet. They found nothing wrong.

Desperate, I set up my phone to record myself sleeping.

What I saw chilled me.

At 3:13 a.m., I stood up in bed. I walked—eyes open—to the mirror. My reflection was already there, waiting. We stood facing each other, unmoving. Then, without warning, I raised my hand and touched the glass. The reflection didn’t copy the movement. It leaned forward instead, placing its own hand on the inside.

I stopped watching after that.

I left the apartment for a few days and stayed with a friend. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had followed me. My reflection in her bathroom mirror twitched before I did. When I blinked, it smiled.

I went back to 3B.

I needed answers.

That night, I poured salt along the doorway and sat in front of the mirror with every light in the apartment turned off. At midnight, I whispered, “What do you want?”

The lights flickered. My breath caught.

The mirror darkened, as if a fog had passed through it. And then, slowly, my reflection stepped forward. It wasn’t me. Its eyes were darker, hollow. Its skin was slightly gray, like wet paper. But it wore my face.

It placed its palm on the glass again.

And smiled.

I tried to run. My feet wouldn’t move. I was frozen. My breath fogged the air in front of me, even though the room was warm. The mirror shimmered—like the surface of water. My reflection opened its mouth and whispered one word.

“Trade.”

I don’t remember what happened next.

But I woke up on the other side.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Time moves strangely. I scream, but no one hears me. I pound on the inside of the glass, but my hands make no sound. Sometimes I see my old apartment. Sometimes I see new faces. They walk by, unaware of the girl trapped behind the mirror.

She wears my face now. She lives my life. And sometimes, when the moonlight hits just right, she touches the glass and grins.

I hope someone else moves into 3B soon.

I need someone to trade places with.