The Mirror That Watches

When I moved into the old apartment on Holloway Street, the mirror was already there—bolted to the wall above the fireplace like it had grown roots into the plaster.

It wasn’t particularly fancy. The frame was a dull brass, tarnished green at the edges, and the glass itself seemed warped, like it was holding its breath. At first, I didn’t pay it much attention. There was enough wrong with the place already: leaky pipes, flickering lights, the constant sound of something scratching in the walls.

But after the first week, I noticed the mirror acting... wrong.

At first, it was little things. When I walked past, my reflection seemed a beat too slow, as if struggling to catch up. Sometimes, in the corner of my eye, I’d see my reflection smiling when I wasn’t. Once, I caught it standing still while I moved.

I told myself it was stress. Lack of sleep.

Until the night I saw someone else in it.

It was late. The apartment was cold enough that my breath fogged the air, and the only light came from the sickly streetlamp outside. I passed through the living room on my way to bed, and in the corner of my vision, I saw a figure in the mirror—a man standing just behind me, face pale and blurred, as if smeared across the glass.

When I turned around, there was no one there.

But in the mirror, he remained.

Frozen with terror, I watched as he slowly raised a hand and pressed it against the inside of the glass.

Not my reflection. Not me.

I stumbled back, knocking over a lamp, the crash snapping me out of my paralysis. When I looked again, the mirror only showed the room—empty except for me.

After that, I draped a heavy sheet over it. I didn’t have the nerve to take it down; it felt wrong, like disturbing something that had been sleeping.

Days passed.

I pretended it wasn’t there.

But last night, as I lay awake, I heard the faint creak of fabric shifting, the whisper of something brushing against cloth.

When I crept into the living room, heart hammering, the sheet lay crumpled on the floor.

The mirror was uncovered.

And my reflection wasn’t alone.

Something stood behind me, closer now, its face pressed against the glass, smiling wide enough to split the skin.

Its hand moved again, slow and deliberate—tapping against the inside of the mirror, three times.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

I ran.

I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know if I can outrun it.

But somewhere behind me, in the dark corners of every reflective surface,

I feel it watching.

Waiting for the right moment to step through