The Dream That Watched Her

Amelia Gray had always been a dreamer — not the poetic kind, but the haunted kind.

For weeks, her nights had been filled with a strange dream.

In it, she stood barefoot on a foggy road, wearing a white dress that swayed like smoke.

At the end of the road, there was always a mirror — tall, cracked, and covered in dust.

And every time she stepped closer, someone inside the mirror moved first.

When she woke up, her heart would pound like a drum in her ears.

She would check her apartment — doors locked, windows closed — yet she often found muddy footprints near her bed.

Her therapist said it was sleepwalking.

But Amelia wasn’t so sure.

Because one night, she caught her reflection smiling back at her, long after she had stopped.

Amelia worked as a travel photographer. Her latest assignment was in a small, forgotten town called Ravenwood, famous for its misty woods and abandoned mansions.

Locals said the town was cursed — that people who dreamt of the “mirror road” never returned the same.

She laughed it off at first, thinking it was a tourist story to lure thrill-seekers.

But when she arrived, something about Ravenwood felt wrong.

The fog there didn’t just float — it watched.

She checked into an old guesthouse owned by a frail woman named Mrs. Harlow, who spoke very little.

Her room was cold, even though the fire burned bright.

Above the bed hung an old mirror — tall, cracked, and covered in dust.

Her heart froze.

That night, Amelia couldn’t sleep.

She stared at the mirror, feeling like it was breathing with her.

Around 3 a.m., she dozed off — and instantly found herself on the foggy road again.

This time, the mirror was closer.

And instead of her reflection, she saw a girl — pale, trembling, with black eyes and a mouth stitched shut.

Amelia whispered, “Who are you?”

The girl raised her hand and began to pull at the stitches until blood dripped down her chin.

Then, with a voice like broken glass, she said:

“You took my picture.”

Amelia woke up screaming.

Her camera bag lay open — and the screen showed a photo she hadn’t taken.

It was a picture of that same stitched-mouth girl, standing by her bed.

Panicking, she ran to Mrs. Harlow’s room.

The old woman was already awake, staring at a candle.

Without turning, she said softly,

“You saw her, didn’t you?”

Amelia’s voice shook. “Who is she?”

Mrs. Harlow sighed. “A tourist. Like you. Came here fifteen years ago. Dreamed of that same mirror road.

She disappeared one night — they found her camera, but not her. Since then, the mirror takes whoever looks too long.”

Amelia felt the walls closing in.

She wanted to leave, but outside the window, fog had swallowed everything.

It was as if the town itself didn’t want her to go.

The next evening, she decided to destroy the mirror.

She covered it with a cloth, dragged it outside, and smashed it with a rock.

For a moment, she felt relief.

But when she turned back, her room’s wall was full of tiny mirrors, each reflecting her terrified face.

And in every reflection, she was a little more bruised, a little more decayed.

That night, the dream came again.

The stitched-mouth girl stood beside her this time.

She took Amelia’s hand and whispered,

“It’s your turn.”

Amelia tried to run, but her feet sank into the fog.

The girl pointed toward the mirror.

Inside, Amelia saw her reflection — but it was already walking away.

She screamed, but her voice made no sound.

Her reflection smiled — the same chilling, knowing smile — and disappeared into the fog.

When morning came, Mrs. Harlow knocked on Amelia’s door. No answer.

The door was unlocked, but the room was empty.

Only her camera lay on the table, still recording.

In the last video, Amelia could be seen standing in front of the mirror, saying quietly:

“If someone finds this… don’t look too long.”

Then, the reflection blinks, even though Amelia doesn’t.

Weeks later, another traveler arrived in Ravenwood.

He was given the same room.

Above the bed hung a tall, cracked mirror.

When he looked into it, he saw a faint reflection of a woman in white — smiling sadly.

The innkeeper asked if he was okay.

He replied, “Yes. But… who’s the woman in the reflection?”

Mrs. Harlow whispered, “No one’s been in that room since Amelia Gray.”

⚰️ Moral / Ending Message:

Some dreams don’t visit you — they live in you.

And once they find your face, they never forget it.