"The Reflection that Stayed

The Reflection That Stayed

Marissa had been living alone for two months when she noticed it: her reflection in the full-length mirror in the hallway paused a heartbeat too long. It was subtle, nearly dismissible—an echo of her movement, a half-second delay as she passed. At first she convinced herself it was fatigue, or her mind playing tricks in the early morning hours. But over the following days, her reflection began acting independently.

One evening, as Marissa prepared dinner, she paused at the mirror, wiping her hands. Her reflection froze—and stared back, expressionless. She frowned. She stepped closer. The reflection didn’t follow her breath, didn’t blink when she did. She tapped the glass. Then, shockingly, her mirrored self smiled. Not a natural, warm smile—but a slow, twisted grin that felt directed at her. Marissa recoiled. When she blinked, the reflection resumed normalcy, but the warmth drained from it.

Over the next week, Marissa’s reflection became something to dread. At times, it would reshuffle its hair a split-second after she did; at other times, it paused before smiling—or sobbing silently, blood seeping from its eyes. Tears of blood. Once, late at night, Marissa woke and padded to the bathroom, drawn by a soft sound. There it was: the muted patter of dripping blood. She flicked on the light. Her reflection stared back, face etched with sorrow, tears pooling red at its chin. She staggered back, heart pounding, and the reflection receded to normal when she braced her hand on the sink.

She decided it must be a trick of light, or her mind unraveling. Still—she found herself avoiding the hallway, turning lights off, hastening past the mirror. But the reflection grew bolder. It began making impossible motions: waving when she was still, glancing over its shoulder when she faced straight on, whispering when she whispered, without her lips moving.

And then, one night, it reached out.

Marissa lay in bed and heard soft footsteps in the hallway. She froze, waiting for the sound to fade—but instead, it stopped just outside her bedroom door. Her breath caught. She sat up, staring into darkness. The door creaked as if pushed by a gentle hand. She lay stiff, heart hammering. Nothing. She calmed enough to drift off.

Later, she awoke to find herself stiff against the wall, blinds partly open, moonlight slanting in. She rubbed her eyes. Across the room, the mirror in her dresser caught glints of the streetlights. And there, reflected, stood her—standing at the door… even though she herself lay on the bed. The reflection’s eyelids fluttered open, showed red-rimmed eyes. The reflection smiled, its expression subtly malevolent. It raised a hand, beckoning.

Marissa gasped, scrambled out of bed, turned on the light. The reflection snapped back to mimicry. She ran to the door. Barred. Run to the hallway mirror—it showed her paused at the threshold of the room. Turning back, she saw it again: the reflection, half-emerged from the mirror. She pressed her palms to the cold glass, staggering as its fingertips pressed from inside, marring the surface with black smudges. She shrieked.

Night after night, the reflection hovered at the edge—pressing, reaching, calling. Marissa tried everything—covering mirrors, pulling them away from walls, staring until exhaustion, sleeping with lights on. At times, she felt watched by a shape in the corner: formless yet purposeful, lingering just outside the field of her vision.

The emotional toll grew unbearable. She stopped eating. She showered less. She hoarded candles and crosses and salt in little mounds around the mirrors. She took friends’ advice, seeing a medium, a priest—who both refused. The medium simply left, pale and shaken. The priest scoffed, saying it was stress, then fell ill two days later, sending Marissa into deeper fear.

Then one night, as Marissa sat huddled in blankets in the darkest corner of her bedroom, she noticed something new in the moonlight. The hallway mirror seemed… duller, like someone had smeared oil on the glass. She blinked. The reflection was absent. She stood, heart pounding. She crept forward, dragging the blanket like a cloak.

As she passed the mirror, the glass shimmered—and the reflection appeared, but only partly: face, shoulders. No body. It looked at her with hungry eyes. Then, as if sensing her fear gesture, it shook its head. Tears of blood spilled from its eyes. It mouthed three words. The sick curve of its red-lipped mouth spelled: “Let me.”

Marissa staggered backward—cold dread flooding her chest. Not “no,” but “let me.” Let it what? Out? In? Be free? A whisper barely touched her ears: Let me.

She reeled and turned away. But in that moment, the world glimmered at the edge of her vision. The reflection slipped sideways in the glass—detaching from the behind-the-glass plane—and stepped forward without crossing the line. Glass flexed and caught. An impossible trick. It stood, fingers touching the surface. It wasn’t mimicking anymore. It was… beseeching.

Marissa flinched. “Why?” she whispered.

The reflection tilted its head, eyes brimming with fragile ache. Its lips curled: “I’m tired.”

The word struck her. Not triumphant, not snarling—tired. It pulled its hand away, fingers trailing red tears. They dripped down the mirror, forming the words “free me.” It closed its eyes. It leaned forward, pressing its forehead to the glass as though it had a migraine. It looked trapped, desperate.

Marissa’s fear wavered. She sank to her knees. “What do you want?” she whispered.

“I want… to stay,” the reflection corrected, its voice breathing out soft and sad. “I want to be here, with you.”

“Stay?” Marissa echoed. “But you scare me—”

“I scare you because you won’t let me stay.”

Marissa shivered in the cold hallway light, heart hammering with uncertainty. She looked at the reflection’s pained eyes. They weren’t red tears now—they were brimming with something like hope.

“You created me,” it said. “Your loneliness. Your fear. Your reflection of sorrow and joy— everything. I just... lingered. I tried to comfort. But you avoid me. You’re lonely. I’m here.”

Marissa’s breath hitched. It shifted. Gone was the monstrous grin; instead, a fragile sadness. Then the glass cracked, a spider‑web fracture rippling outward. The reflection cried out—sharp and small, like the snapping of bone. Then, silence.

Marissa backed up. The glass spider‑webbed all the way, reflecting a shattered path. No figure in the mirror now—just a broken image of herself. She heard a whisper, faint in the shards:

“Stay…”

Marissa ran. She pulled every mirror from the house, boarded up the frames, and threw them in the basement. She shuttered cameras, locks on the door. She slept low to the ground, wary of shadows.

Weeks passed. Life became emptier without those surfaces—but maybe safer. She tried to reclaim normalcy. But late at night, she sometimes dreamt of a face at the window—eyes moist, lips parted. A voice in her head coaxed: Let me stay. I’m here. I belong. She’d wake in sweat, furious that the reflex mirrorless world denied it a way in.

One evening, as she swept the basement floor, she noticed a crack in the boarded-up mirror door—just a fuzzy sliver of light from her hall. She froze. From that crack, she saw a pale fingertip press against the back of the wood. Then another. Slowly, board by board, the mirror–her reflection—reassembled its world. The wood splintered, boards fell away. The glass reformed behind.

Marissa backed into the cement wall, shaking. The dresser mirror reappeared in sequence behind her. Then, faint but resolute: footsteps in the hall. She shut her eyes. When she dared to open them, the hallway mirror was back on the wall. And in it—she saw the reflection of herself… and another.

It hovered at her left side, pale and still. It could stay now. She realized: once it returned, it was there to stay.

Marissa’s kidneys clenched, lungs burned. But it was too late. The reflection stepped forward. Not to escape, but to belong. Forever.