The Mirror Lied

The mirror had always been in the hallway.

Tall, framed in tarnished gold leaf, its glass was slightly warped — the kind that made your reflection look just a bit... off. It belonged to my grandmother, who used to mutter in her last years, “Don’t trust what it shows you.”

I thought it was dementia. Until the day it blinked at me.

I’d just moved into the house after she passed — an old Victorian on the edge of town. The kind of place with creaky floorboards, too many locked doors, and a coldness that lingered even in summer. I should’ve sold it, but it was free, and I was broke.

On my second night, I passed the mirror on my way to bed and stopped. My reflection had paused half a second too late. I froze. Chalked it up to exhaustion. Maybe the glass was just slow, old. Still, I didn’t look at it again that night.

The next morning, I found the mirror uncovered.

I always draped a blanket over it. Not because I was scared, I told myself — just because it creeped me out. But now it was bare, exposed, and the reflection was... normal.

Except I wasn’t in it.

Not at first.

The hallway was there. The walls. The coat rack. But no me. Then, a flicker — and suddenly, I was there. Staring back, wide-eyed.

I stepped closer. So did my reflection.

But something was wrong.

My face smiled before I did.

I started noticing more after that.

Tiny differences.

In the mirror, I always looked just a bit more tired than I felt. Sometimes my hair was parted on the wrong side. Once, I had a small cut under my eye that wasn’t there when I touched my skin. But it was there later that day — just like in the reflection.

It was predicting things. Or deciding them.

I tested it. Wore different clothes. Changed my hairstyle. Sometimes, what I wore in the mirror wasn’t what I’d put on. But by the end of the day, it was. As if the reflection came first — and I followed.

I started avoiding it, but the more I did, the more it called to me.

Literally.

It began whispering.

Late at night, I’d hear it — soft, hissing noises from the hallway. No words at first. Just a dry rasp, like breath behind glass. Then came the voice.

“Let me in.”

Just once, then silence. Then again the next night.

“Let me in.”

I covered it again. This time with duct tape, two blankets, and a dresser pushed in front.

That night, I dreamt I was standing in the hallway, peeling the tape off, smiling like it was all a game. The reflection was smiling too, only it wasn’t me — not really.

Its eyes were too dark. Too deep.

When I woke up, the mirror was uncovered again. The blankets on the floor. The tape, shredded. The dresser — moved.

And my reflection was already there, watching me.

Smiling.

I tried to leave. Packed a bag, booked a hotel. But every time I reached the door, something stopped me — a strange pull, a whisper from behind.

That night, I watched the mirror from across the hallway, hidden in the shadows.

At 3:03 a.m., it moved.

My reflection walked away, without me. Left the frame. The hallway in the mirror was empty.

And then... it returned.

Not me. Not anymore.

It stared out, waiting.

The next morning, I looked like hell. Pale, sunken eyes. I hadn’t slept. But I walked up to the mirror anyway.

“Why?” I asked aloud. “What do you want?”

The reflection tilted its head. Then, for the first time, it spoke.

“You.”

And it reached forward.

The glass rippled — not like liquid, but like flesh under pressure. I stumbled back, and its hand slammed against the inside of the mirror, leaving a palm print of frost.

That night, I smashed it.

Hammer, crowbar, fists. Shards flew everywhere. Blood ran down my arms. The mirror shattered — into silence.

Or so I thought.

It’s been a week.

I covered the wall with wood. Hung a painting over it. I don’t look into mirrors anymore — not in the bathroom, not in my phone. Too scared of what I might see.

But tonight, I woke up with blood on my hands. Again.

And on the wall, where the mirror used to be, a crack has formed — thin, but growing.

Just before dawn, I walked past the painting and froze.

It was gone.

And in its place, a single shard of glass stood upright in the frame.

I looked into it.

And my reflection smiled — before I did.