Last Seen in the Mirror: A Haunting Reflection That Wouldn’t Disappear

By Waqid Ali

Last Seen in the Mirror: A Haunting Reflection That Wouldn’t Disappear

The first time I saw him in the mirror, I thought it was a trick of the light.

Just a shadow. A trick of exhaustion.

But shadows don’t smile back.

And shadows don’t wear the same clothes your brother was buried in six months ago.

I froze in the bathroom doorway, heart thudding so hard it drowned out the dripping faucet. His face was pale, the skin stretched tight, and his eyes glistened like wet glass. My reflection stood still, but his lifted a hand… and waved.

The air tasted like rust.

I blinked. The mirror showed only me. But I swear—God help me—I wasn’t alone in that glass.

The Reflection That Stayed Behind

They say grief plays tricks on the mind. That when you lose someone, you start seeing them in crowds, hearing their voices in the hum of a fan or the shuffle of leaves. But no therapist has ever explained what happened next.

Because it wasn’t just once.

It was every night, exactly at 2:13 a.m. The mirror in the hallway would cloud over as if someone breathed against it from the other side. A shape would form, faint at first, then clearer, like water revealing a body beneath its surface. Always him. Always smiling.

And always trying to speak.

The words fogged against the glass, backwards, impossible to read. But I could see his lips move. My brother was saying something. Begging. Warning. Or maybe just laughing that I was still trapped here, while he wasn’t.

When the Mirror Began to Change

One night I made the mistake of answering.

“What do you want?” I whispered, leaning close enough that my own breath clouded the surface.

The reflection smiled wider. Then he placed his palm against the glass. Without thinking, I placed mine against his.

The mirror felt warm. Too warm.

And that’s when I saw it—my reflection behind him. Not in front, not in sync with me, but behind him. My body, my face, distorted like a doll stuffed into a jar. Eyes wide. Mouth open. Silent, but screaming.

The thing in the mirror wasn’t my brother.

The Vanishings

I stopped sleeping after that. Every reflective surface in the house got covered—mirrors, windows, even the black shine of the television. But somehow, he still found ways to appear. A spoon. A phone screen. The dark surface of a cup of tea.

And then people in town began to vanish.

A girl from the bookstore. The mailman. My neighbor’s son. Each time, the last place they were seen was somewhere near a mirror, a shop window, or even a puddle. I didn’t want to connect it, but I knew. I knew.

Because every time someone disappeared, the figure in the mirror grew sharper. Stronger. And the face behind him—my trapped reflection—looked more broken.

The Last Warning

I’m writing this because tonight feels different. The house is too quiet, the shadows too thick.

I went to check the bathroom one last time. The mirror was uncovered—I don’t know how. And he was already there.

Smiling.

But this time, he wasn’t wearing my brother’s face. He was wearing mine.

And his hand pressed against the glass isn’t waving anymore. It’s pushing. Hard.

If you’re reading this, don’t look in your mirror tonight.

Don’t trust what you see staring back.

Because once it smiles on its own, it’s already too late.