The Girl Who Lived in My Mirror

When I was eight, my parents bought a century-old Victorian house. Creaky floors, drafty hallways, and mirrors—lots of mirrors. The house had them in every room. They were antique, beautifully carved, and—according to my mom—“full of character.”

But one mirror wasn’t like the rest.

It was in my bedroom.

Tall, cracked at the corner, framed in blackened oak. My dad tried to move it, but it wouldn’t budge. “Must be built into the wall,” he shrugged.

That’s when I started seeing her.

Not at first. For the first few weeks, it was just me in the reflection. But then I noticed something strange—my reflection blinked slower than I did. It smiled when I didn’t.

And eventually, it started watching me when I walked away.

I told my parents. They laughed. “You’ve got a wild imagination.”

So I tested it.

I stood completely still, holding my breath. My reflection stared back. But just as I was about to move—it smiled.

I didn’t.

I ran.

At night, I began hearing soft tapping. I’d wake to the sound of fingers drumming lightly against the mirror’s glass. Always three taps. Always around 3:33 a.m.

One night, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I crept out of bed and walked toward the mirror. My reflection wasn’t there.

I was standing in front of it—alone.

Then slowly… she stepped into view. She was me—but pale, with hollow eyes and a mouth stretched into a grin too wide for her face. Her head tilted, and she raised one hand and wrote in the condensation on the mirror from my breath:

“I want out.”

I screamed.

My parents burst in. But when they looked, all they saw was my reflection—normal.

They called a therapist. Said I was having hallucinations. Night terrors. They made me sleep with the lights on.

But that didn’t stop her.

She started speaking.

Not out loud—but in my head. Every time I looked at the mirror, I’d hear her whispering: “Let me out. Just switch places with me. It’s lonely here.”

I stopped looking in mirrors. I covered every one in the house with sheets, even taped paper over the bathroom mirror. My parents thought I was losing it.

Then one day, the mirror was gone.

Just... gone.

My parents claimed they’d removed it while I was at school. “You said it scared you,” they said.

But I didn’t feel relief.

I felt fear.

Because that night, I looked in the hallway mirror on accident—and my reflection smiled before I did.