Letters from the Mirror

Letters from the Mirror

Lila first noticed it on a Wednesday evening — the faint swirl of fog on her bathroom mirror spelling out “Hi.”

She froze, toothbrush in hand. The air was still, the window closed. She hadn’t showered, there was no steam. Yet, the letters glowed faintly in the glass as if written by an invisible finger.

She wiped it away with her palm. It reappeared.

Hi.

“Who’s there?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

No answer. Only her wide eyes staring back at her reflection.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. Her phone lay beside her pillow, the bathroom light leaking under the door. Every few minutes, she glanced at it, half expecting to see the door move.

The next morning, when she went in to wash her face, new words were waiting.

“Nice blue shirt.”

She was wearing her favorite blue hoodie.

Her chest tightened. She ran out of the room and called for her mother, but by the time they returned, the mirror was blank. Her mother laughed it off — “You’re studying too much, sweetheart. Maybe it’s just condensation.”

But Lila knew what she saw.


---

That night, she brought her phone into the bathroom and recorded everything. For a long time, nothing happened. Then the glass shimmered faintly, and the words appeared slowly, one letter at a time.

“Don’t be scared.”

Her breath hitched.
“Who are you?” she asked.

Silence. Then, a moment later —

“Someone who knows you.”

Her hands trembled. She typed the message into her notes, her heart pounding.

“What do you mean?” she whispered.

The mirror fogged again.

“I see what’s ahead.”


---

For the next week, the messages continued. They were harmless, even helpful.
“Don’t forget your math test.”
“Wear your jacket. It’ll rain.”
“Say yes when he asks for help in class.”

Every time, it was right.

Her life began to subtly change — she passed her test, met new friends, and even helped a shy boy named Ethan fix his camera. She almost felt grateful to the strange voice behind the glass.

Until Sunday night.

That’s when the message changed.

Lila stepped out of the shower, wiping her face, and froze. The mirror was covered in fog except for one clear line of writing.

“Don’t go to school tomorrow.”

She blinked. “Why?”

No response.

She grabbed her towel, heart hammering. “What do you mean?”

The glass stayed still. Then, slowly —

“Please. Just trust me.”


---

The next morning, she couldn’t shake the warning. She told her mom she wasn’t feeling well and stayed home.

Around noon, the news flashed across the television — a gas leak at her school. Several students had been hospitalized after an explosion in the chemistry lab.

Her spoon fell from her hand. She could barely breathe. The mirror had saved her.

When she went to the bathroom that night, tears filled her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered to the mirror.

The fog swirled.

“You’re welcome.”

Then another line appeared —

“But it’s not over.”

Her throat tightened. “What do you mean?”

“There’s another danger. Closer.”

The air turned cold. She felt it then — a faint vibration under her feet. The bathroom light flickered.

The mirror began to pulse with heat, faintly glowing. Letters scrolled rapidly across the glass.

“He’s here.”

“Who’s here?” she cried out.

The reflection behind her moved.

For a heartbeat, she thought it was her imagination — until the reflection smiled.
She wasn’t smiling.

Her heart lurched. She spun around — but the room was empty.

When she turned back, her reflection’s eyes were darker. Shadow pooled in the corners of the mirror. The words formed one last time, trembling as if scratched by an unseen hand:

“Run.”

The lights went out.


---

Lila’s scream echoed through the house. Her mother burst into the bathroom, flipping the switch.

Everything was normal again. The mirror was clean, no writing, no fog. Only Lila, pale and shaking.

Her mother pulled her into a hug. “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s just a bad dream.”

But Lila’s gaze stayed locked on the mirror over her mother’s shoulder.

Because as they turned to leave, faint letters began to appear again.

“Not a dream.”


---

The next day, Lila covered the mirror with an old towel. She couldn’t bear to see it. But that night, she heard faint scratching from behind the glass — like fingernails on frost.

She ripped off the towel and gasped. Words scrawled frantically across the surface.

“You were supposed to die that day.”
“The mirror changed it.”
“Now something else wants you.”

Her reflection shimmered, split for a moment, then smiled again — that same wrong smile.

The phone in her hand began vibrating. A new text appeared on the screen from an unknown number.

> LOOK AT ME.



The bathroom door slammed shut. The mirror glowed white.

She screamed as the light engulfed her — and then silence.


---

The next morning, her mother found the bathroom door open. Steam covered the mirror.

Four words were written faintly across it:

“She looked too long.”