He Told Me Not to Look in the Mirror

When I moved into my new apartment, the landlord had only one strange request.

“Everything’s in perfect shape,” he said. “Just… don’t look into the mirror in the hallway after midnight.”

I laughed, thinking it was a joke. Maybe some old superstition or a way to add “charm” to the place.

For the first few nights, I didn’t think about it. I avoided the mirror without effort. But curiosity is a strange thing—it eats away at you slowly.

On the sixth night, I came home late. It was 12:15 a.m. I was tired, a little buzzed, and curious.

I stood in front of the tall, old hallway mirror. The frame was cracked, and the glass slightly foggy—but it reflected me clearly. At first, everything seemed normal… until I blinked.

My reflection didn’t.

I froze.

I tilted my head left. It tilted right. I stepped back. It stepped forward. My mouth went dry.

Suddenly, my reflection smiled. I didn’t.

Then it lifted its hand and pointed behind me.

I spun around. Nothing.

When I turned back, the mirror was empty. No reflection. Just the hallway behind me.

I ran.

The next morning, I went straight to the landlord. He opened the door, looking tired—like he already knew why I came.

“You looked, didn’t you?” he said, not angry—just… sad.He didn’t explain much. Only that every tenant who looked into the mirror saw something, and none of them stayed long after. Some left the city. Some disappeared altogether.

I didn’t ask more. I moved out that day.

But sometimes, at night, I still see glimpses of movement in mirrors—just out of sync with me. And sometimes… they smile first.