Episode 1: The Reflection That Wasn't Mine

It started with a crack.

A tiny fracture in my bathroom mirror, so small I barely noticed it. I probably wouldn’t have cared, except… the crack moved.

Not like growing — moved.

Every time I looked at it, it was in a different place. First near the edge, then closer to the middle. One day it curved downward like a crooked smile.

I told myself I was being paranoid. Maybe the mirror was just old, reacting to humidity or heat. But the crack wasn’t the only strange thing.

My reflection began to feel… off.

At first, it was subtle. A delay in movement. I’d raise my hand, and my reflection followed a split-second later. I blinked, and the image of me didn’t.

I laughed it off. Lack of sleep, too much caffeine, overthinking — all the usual excuses. But deep down, I knew something was wrong.

Then came the night it smiled at me.

I wasn’t smiling.

I had just brushed my teeth. Tired. Emotionless. But my reflection — it smiled. A cold, knowing smirk, as if it were aware of something I wasn’t.

I stumbled backward and turned off the bathroom light. When I turned it back on, the reflection was normal again. My expression. My timing. My face.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had taken my place — or was trying to.

Over the next week, things escalated.

My reflection started moving on its own.

I’d turn my head to the left, and the reflection would turn to the right. I’d stay still, and it would tilt its head, studying me. Like a scientist observing a specimen.

Once, I tried testing it.

I stood completely still, stared into the mirror, and waited.

After nearly thirty seconds, it winked.

I screamed, shattered the mirror with my fist, and ran out of the bathroom. My hand was bleeding, but I didn’t care. The glass was everywhere.

I avoided mirrors after that.

Covered them. Removed the ones I could.

But mirrors are everywhere — in stores, elevators, cars, screens. I saw it again in a department store dressing room. The reflection was me, but its eyes were darker, deeper, like they had no bottom. Like they were looking into me.

That night, I had a dream — at least, I hope it was a dream.

I was standing in front of a tall, antique mirror. My reflection stepped out. It didn’t say anything. It didn’t have to.

It was taking over.

I woke up sweating, heart racing, and ran to the bathroom mirror — the one I had smashed. I had replaced it with a new one, still in perfect shape.

Except… there was a crack.

The same crack. The same position.

And in the mirror, my reflection was smiling again.

I decided to film it.

Set up my phone on the bathroom counter, pressed record, and stared into the mirror for five minutes.

Nothing happened.

When I watched the recording, I almost convinced myself I was losing it.

Until the very end.

As I turned off the light and walked away, my reflection stayed. Still standing there. Watching. Smiling.

I showed it to a friend. He laughed nervously, said I was just tired, maybe edited it without realizing.

So I deleted the video.

But the mirror games didn’t stop.

Now I see it in my dreams every night. A version of me — but not me — calling me, luring me, begging me to come closer. It tells me it’s better over there. Peaceful. No pain. No fear.

And each night, I get closer to the glass.

Last night, I touched it.

And it was warm.

Today, when I looked in the mirror… it didn’t copy me at all.

I waved. Nothing.

I frowned. It smiled.

Then it lifted its hand and tapped the glass.

Three times.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

And I felt it — in my skull. Like something knocking inside my head.

I don’t know how long I can resist.

I’ve stopped sleeping. I avoid mirrors. But windows reflect. Water reflects. My phone screen, my laptop, even my spoon — they’re all doors now.

It’s getting closer.

I feel it when I blink.

I hear it whispering in my dreams.

Sometimes… I think it’s already crossed over.

Because lately, when I look at photos of myself, I don’t recognize the man in them.

Last night, I found a message written on the bathroom mirror in condensation:

“THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME IN.”

I didn’t write it.

And the worst part? I wasn’t even home.