The Man Behind the Bathroom Mirror: A True Account of Terror

I moved into the apartment on Oak Street because it was cheap—too cheap for a place in the middle of town.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was mine. A one-bedroom with an old-fashioned bathroom and a cracked medicine cabinet mirror that looked like it hadn’t been replaced in decades. I didn’t mind. At least, not at first.

The first week was uneventful. Quiet. Almost too quiet. No neighbors knocking. No sounds through the thin walls. Just stillness.

But on the seventh night, I noticed something strange while brushing my teeth.

A flicker.

Just a blink in the mirror—like a shadow moving behind me. But when I turned, nothing was there. I laughed it off. Maybe I was tired. Maybe it was just my eyes.

That night, I dreamed of water running. Not rushing or pouring—dripping. Slow, rhythmic, maddening.

When I woke, the faucet in the bathroom was on. Just a tiny stream. I hadn’t touched it.

Things escalated quickly after that.

I started noticing condensation on the mirror every morning, even though I hadn’t showered. Like someone had been breathing close to it—leaving faint smears, like finger trails through the fog.

On the tenth night, I woke to the sound of someone whispering.

I thought it came from outside, but it didn’t. It came from the bathroom.

I stood in the dark hallway, staring through the cracked door, heart pounding. The light inside was off, but I swear I saw a movement in the mirror.

A hand.

Then a face.

Not mine.

I called the landlord the next day, pretending I needed the mirror replaced due to a “crack that keeps growing.” He laughed and said, “Everyone complains about that mirror. Creeps people out, I guess.”

I asked what he meant, but he brushed it off.

So I did some digging.

A few hours on Google, and I found something chilling.

Ten years ago, a man named Thomas Greeley lived in the same unit. Single. Reclusive. Neighbors said he stopped coming out. Eventually, they noticed a smell. Police found him dead in the tub—mirror shattered, blood everywhere. No signs of forced entry.

They ruled it a suicide.

But the case file mentioned one odd detail.

His fingernails were broken, like he’d been clawing at glass.

That night, I covered the mirror with an old bedsheet. I slept a little easier. But when I woke…

…the sheet was gone.

Folded neatly on the bathroom floor.

And across the mirror were five long scratches—too high for me to reach. Like fingernails dragged from the inside.

I tried staying at a hotel, but every night I left, the dreams followed me. Worse and worse. In them, I was in the tub, paralyzed, watching my reflection twist into someone else—someone grinning, eyes hollow and endless.

I’d wake gasping, drenched in sweat. Sometimes, with blood under my fingernails.

I started to believe he wasn’t in the apartment.

He was in the mirror. In me.

One evening, I brought a hammer into the bathroom, determined to smash the damn thing. As I raised it, the mirror rippled—like water.

And he looked back at me.

Not a reflection. Not me.

Thomas Greeley. Pale. Wet. Dead.

He smiled, reached through, and whispered:

“It’s your turn.”

The hammer dropped from my hand.

I don’t remember much after that.

Only that I woke up in the bathtub hours later.

The mirror was intact.

But it wasn’t my face anymore.

Since then, I avoid looking at it directly.

Because every time I do, it feels like he’s closer.

Watching.

Waiting.

Breathing.

And every now and then… the mirror fogs up again, and I see words traced in the mist:

“Let me out.”