Living In Mirror

Ever since I moved into my new apartment, something about the mirror in the bathroom felt... wrong. It wasn’t just the dim lighting or the odd angle at which the mirror was mounted. There was an unnatural quality to it—a faint hum in the air whenever I stood in front of it, like the mirror was alive and waiting for something.

The first few weeks were uneventful, though the unease lingered. I’d catch myself glancing at the mirror when I didn’t need to, as if drawn to it against my will. Then, one night, I noticed something that made my blood run cold. As I brushed my teeth, my reflection didn’t move with me. For a split second, it lagged behind, staring at me with an intensity I couldn’t comprehend. I froze, my toothbrush suspended mid-air, but when I blinked, everything was normal again. Normal, except for the creeping chill that clawed its way up my spine.

The incidents escalated. Sometimes, when I caught the mirror in my peripheral vision, I’d see movement that didn’t belong to me. Shadows darting across the glass, faint impressions of something—or someone—just out of sight. Once, when leaning in to inspect a blemish on my cheek, my reflection stayed perfectly still as I moved closer. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable. I wasn’t alone in that mirror.

Terrified, I started avoiding the bathroom altogether, draping the mirror with a thick blanket. But even then, I couldn’t escape the sensation of being watched. The feeling followed me, lurking in the corners of my apartment, invading my dreams. And worse, I started hearing things. At first, it was faint—a low whisper, barely audible over the hum of my refrigerator. But soon, it grew louder. Words I couldn’t quite understand, but filled with a malice so profound it made my stomach churn.

One night, the whispers became a rhythmic tapping. It started softly, like fingernails rapping against glass, and grew louder, more insistent. It was coming from the bathroom. Heart hammering in my chest, I grabbed the closest thing I could find—a heavy wrench—and crept toward the sound. The tapping stopped as I reached the door. The air was icy cold, and the faint hum from the mirror was louder now, almost deafening.

I pulled back the blanket covering the mirror. The glass was no longer reflective; it was dark, murky, and pulsating like a living thing. My reflection was there, but it wasn’t me. Its face was twisted into a grotesque grin, eyes wide and unblinking. Slowly, it raised a hand and pressed it against the inside of the glass. The surface rippled like water, and I could see its hand—no, its claw—pushing through.

“Let me out,” it hissed, the voice slithering into my ears like poison. It wasn’t my voice, but it was close enough to make my stomach turn. I stumbled back, dropping the wrench, but the reflection didn’t stop. It pressed harder against the glass, cracks spiderwebbing across the surface. “It’s your turn now,” it growled, its grin widening impossibly.

I turned to run, but the bathroom door slammed shut. The light flickered, and I felt the air grow heavier, pressing against my chest like a physical weight. The mirror began to shake violently, the cracks widening, dark liquid seeping out and pooling on the floor. I screamed as the reflection’s hand broke through the glass, reaching for me with jagged, inhuman fingers.

Before I could move, it grabbed my wrist. Its touch was ice-cold, and the world around me dissolved into darkness. I felt myself being pulled, dragged into the mirror—into that cold, suffocating void. I fought, clawing at the edges of the glass, but it was no use. The last thing I saw was its face, staring at me from the other side, wearing my features like a mask.

When I woke up, I was standing in the bathroom, staring into the mirror. My reflection was normal, mimicking my every move. But as I leaned closer, I saw something that made my stomach drop. Behind my reflection, in the depths of the mirror, a pair of eyes watched me. They didn’t blink. They didn’t move. They just stared, filled with hunger.

I’m not sure how much time has passed since then. Days? Weeks? I don’t leave the apartment anymore. The whispers have started again, louder now, more insistent. Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I catch glimpses of a figure moving in the background. It’s waiting, biding its time.

I don’t think I’ll be able to keep it at bay much longer. It wants out. And when it gets out... it’ll take more than just my place.