Behind the Bathroom Mirror

No one ever went into Apartment 4B if they could help it. The landlord never offered it. The neighbors never asked. But when Clara needed a place—fast and cheap—it was the only one available.

“It’s old, but solid,” the landlord had said, eyes darting away. “Just don’t mind the bathroom. Pipes are a bit... weird.”

Weird was an understatement.

The apartment itself was fine—dusty, creaky, but livable. It was the bathroom mirror that made her pause.

It was large, oval, framed in tarnished silver. Beautiful, even elegant, but strange. The glass had a slight shimmer, like water rippling beneath the surface. Every time Clara looked into it, she had the distinct sensation that someone else was looking back.

On her third night, it began.

She had finished brushing her teeth when she noticed the reflection behind her—just for a second—a shadow that moved, though she hadn’t.

Clara spun around. Nothing.

She chalked it up to exhaustion. Moved on.

The next morning, there was condensation on the mirror, though she hadn’t taken a hot shower. Written in it, as if traced by a fingertip, were the words:

“DON’T LOOK TOO LONG.”

Her heart dropped. She wiped it clean, trying to laugh it off. Maybe a prank? Leftover from a previous tenant?

That night, she dared to look again—closer.

Her reflection was her... but not quite. The face in the mirror blinked a beat too late. Smiled when she didn’t.

She backed away slowly.

Behind her, the faucet turned on.

The water ran black.

Panic welled in her chest. She turned the handle, but it kept flowing. When she looked back up, her reflection was gone.

Only the bathroom.

Empty.

Except for something shifting in the shadows behind the glass.

She fled the bathroom, slamming the door shut.

The landlord didn’t answer his phone. She slept on the couch, lights on, heart racing.

By morning, everything seemed normal again. The mirror showed only her. The water was clear. The message was gone.

She tried to tell herself it had been a dream.

Until she found the scratches.

Tiny gouges in the wall behind the mirror, only visible when the light hit just right. As if fingernails had clawed from the inside.

Clara decided to remove it. She grabbed a flathead screwdriver and began to pry at the edges. The mirror creaked, resisting, but slowly gave way.

When she finally lifted it off the wall, she expected pipes, maybe rot.

Instead, there was a hole.

A hollow cavity, big enough for a person.

And inside it—eyes.

Wide, pale eyes. Watching her.

Clara screamed and dropped the mirror. It shattered across the floor.

The wall gaped open. Dust floated out like breath.

And then, a hand reached through.

Thin. Bony. Gray.

Clara scrambled backward as a woman pulled herself out. Or what used to be a woman. Her skin hung like wet cloth. Her hair was a tangled curtain. Her mouth stretched too wide, as if carved into her skull.

“Thank you,” the creature rasped, voice like cracked glass. “So long… behind the mirror…”

Clara ran. Through the hall, down the stairs. But the front door wouldn’t open. The windows were stuck. The phone was dead.

When she returned to the bathroom with trembling limbs, the woman was gone.

But so was the hole.

And the mirror—perfectly intact.

That night, Clara didn’t sleep. She sat facing the bathroom door, baseball bat in hand.

At 3:17 AM, the faucet turned on again.

She rose, heart hammering, and opened the door.

The mirror greeted her with a smile.

But it wasn’t her own.

It was the woman’s face, wearing Clara’s expression.

And behind the glass… Clara stared out in horror, banging from inside, her screams silent, muffled by a world of glass.

The woman stepped away from the sink, wearing Clara’s skin like a perfect mask.

The lights flicked off.

Behind the mirror, Clara still screams.

But no one can hear her.

Because no one looks too long.