She Was Drying Her Hair in the Bathroom — But Had No Reflection

She Was Drying Her Hair in the Bathroom — But Had No Reflection

It was supposed to be just three nights.

I was in northern Pakistan, researching old architecture for a historical travel piece. The haveli, they said, was “safe,” just abandoned, dusty — but structurally sound.

The caretaker, an old man named Baba Siddiq, handed me the key and warned lightly:

> “You’ll hear things. Don’t open every door. Don’t look in every mirror.”

I thought he was just adding flavor for tourists.

I should have listened.

---

Night One: Creaks and Whispers

The haveli was beautiful — in a haunting kind of way.

Arched doorways. Carved wooden ceilings.

Every step echoed like a drumbeat.

The first night was quiet… until 3:07 AM.

A dripping sound.

Coming from the hallway bathroom.

I checked — the taps were dry. Floor dry.

Probably pipes, I thought.

---

Night Two: The Shadow in the Mirror

Again at 3:07 AM, the dripping returned.

But this time, I heard footsteps.

Not heavy.

Barefoot.

Soft.

Walking… and stopping behind the bathroom door.

I gathered my courage.

Opened the door.

No one.

But the mirror above the sink was foggy —

Like someone had just showered.

---

I wiped it.

And as I did…

I saw the door behind me reflected open —

Though I had just closed it.

When I turned around —

It was still shut.

But in the mirror…

Someone was standing in the corner.

A woman.

Back facing me.

Long wet hair… dripping.

Combing slowly.

I spun around.

Nothing.

I stared back at the mirror — now empty again.

I left the room and locked it.

---

Night Three: No Reflection

By now, I was too curious.

I placed my phone on the sink. Set it to record. Left the camera running.

Then I waited… right outside the bathroom door.

3:05 AM. Silence.

3:07 AM…

Click.

The door slowly creaked open.

A gust of cold air slipped out.

And I heard it —

Humming.

A soft, slow, old tune.

Unfamiliar.

But… comforting?

I opened the door gently.

And there she was.

---

A woman.

Standing in front of the mirror.

Dressed in white.

Hair wet and long.

Combing softly.

I couldn’t see her face.

But I could see her clearly.

Except…

The mirror reflected the wall behind her.

Not her.

Not the comb.

Not the dripping hair.

Just emptiness.

---

I whispered:

> “Who are you?”

She paused.

Then turned — not fully — just slightly.

And vanished.

Not in a blink.

But like mist in sunlight.

Fading away.

But on the floor…

A trail of wet hair.

Thick.

Black.

Still moving slightly… as if freshly dropped.

---

I rushed to my phone.

Opened the recording.

The video showed…

Nothing.

Not her.

Not me.

Just… an empty bathroom with fog building up.

Then — suddenly — the fog spelled something on the mirror:

“Why do you see me?”

---

I ran out that night.

Baba Siddiq was waiting outside the gate.

As if he knew.

He didn’t smile.

Just said softly:

> “She’s been there since her nikah night. Groom never came. She died drying her hair, waiting.”

> “Why no reflection?”

> “Because she never saw herself as a bride. So now… no mirror shows her either.”

---

Since that night, I’ve visited many places.

But never again do I trust a bathroom mirror after 3:00 AM.

Because reflections lie.

But ghosts?

They only ask to be seen.