The Man in the Corner of Every Mirror

When Claire moved into her new apartment, she loved everything about it—the tall windows, the creaking floors, even the faint smell of old wood that lingered in the walls. It was her first place alone after years of roommates and noise. She liked silence.

Until she noticed the man.

It began the night she unpacked. She caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror: a tall figure standing in the far corner, half-shrouded in shadow. He wasn’t detailed, just an outline—like someone had drawn a man in charcoal and forgotten to finish the face.

She spun around. The bathroom was empty.

She laughed nervously. “New place jitters,” she muttered, wiping fog from the mirror. But when she leaned closer, she saw him again. Same spot. Same silence.

She turned, checked every corner. Nothing.

The next morning, she almost convinced herself it was imagination—until she saw him again in the hallway mirror by the elevator at work.

Behind her reflection, the same figure. Still. Watching.

She turned so fast she bumped into a coworker. The hall was empty.

“Claire? You okay?” her coworker asked.

“Yeah,” she lied. “Just… thought I saw something.”

But she kept seeing him—at the café window, in her rearview mirror, even in the reflection of her phone screen when it went dark. Always behind her, just far enough that she couldn’t make out his face.

And always, always silent.

A week passed before fear gave way to obsession. She began testing it. She’d stand in front of the bathroom mirror for hours, moving slowly, stepping aside, crouching down. The man never moved—only mirrored her angle, staying perfectly still.

One night she held her phone up to film the reflection. The moment she pressed record, the mirror fogged over. When it cleared, he was closer.

She dropped her phone, heart hammering. The video, when she replayed it, showed nothing—just her alone, staring into glass.

She stopped using mirrors after that.

She covered the bathroom one with a towel, avoided store windows, dimmed her phone screen until it barely reflected her face. But reflections find you no matter how you hide—from car windshields, water, even glass picture frames.

Once, washing dishes, she froze at the sight of him in the sheen of a wet knife. This time, she could see more—hands pale and still, a coat that seemed too dark to be shadow.

And his head tilted slightly, as though he’d noticed her noticing him.

The knife clattered to the sink. She backed away, breath shallow.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

No answer, of course. Just her voice echoing in the kitchen.

By the second month, sleep became impossible.

Every night she dreamed of mirrors—hundreds of them, lining walls, ceilings, floors. She’d run between them, seeing herself multiplied infinitely, but always, in the farthest reflection, he waited.

Once, she woke to find every reflective surface in the apartment uncovered. The towel she’d taped to the bathroom mirror had been neatly folded on the sink. Her phone, screen-up, was resting beside her pillow.

Her reflection was smiling. She wasn’t.

She screamed until her throat bled.

The neighbors complained. The landlord checked the apartment, gave her a polite, uneasy smile, and said, “There’s nothing here, Miss Reynolds. Maybe you’re overworked.”

She wanted to believe him. She even booked a weekend at a lakeside cabin, thinking maybe distance would help.

It didn’t.

The cabin was beautiful—no TV, no phone signal, no mirrors. She finally exhaled. The first night, she sat by the fire, reading. For a moment, peace.

Then she noticed the window.

In the glass reflection, faintly lit by the fire, he stood just outside the cabin door.

Her book fell from her hands.

She turned—nothing. But when she looked back, he was closer, the window now fogged as if he were breathing against it.

Claire bolted, locking the door, pulling curtains closed, her hands shaking. She curled up by the fireplace, too afraid to sleep.

When morning came, she opened the door cautiously. Snow stretched untouched for miles. No footprints. No sign anyone had been there.

But on the window glass, faintly visible where frost melted, she saw a handprint. Larger than hers.

She didn’t tell anyone. Who could she tell? Her family already thought she was fragile after the breakdown last year. Her therapist had said her “mind creates what it fears most.”

But this wasn’t in her head.

She decided to try something different—face him.

That night, she removed the towel from the mirror. Her hands trembled, but she stood tall. “I see you,” she said aloud. “What do you want from me?”

The figure in the corner didn’t move.

She took a step closer.

“I’m not afraid anymore.”

The lights flickered.

Then—slowly, impossibly—the man in the reflection began to move.

He stepped forward. Not toward her in the room—but toward her in the mirror.

Her reflection backed away in perfect sync. But the man kept coming.

She reached out to touch the glass.

Cold fingers brushed hers from the other side.

She screamed, stumbling backward. The mirror cracked—hairline fractures splintering out like veins.

When she dared look again, he was gone. The reflection showed only her—pale, shaking, alone.

For the first time in weeks, the apartment felt empty.

She laughed through tears, relief flooding her. Maybe she’d broken it. Maybe she was finally free.

That night, she slept deeply for the first time in months.

Morning light filtered through curtains. She rose, made coffee, and went to brush her teeth.

The mirror was still cracked, spiderweb lines cutting across her reflection. She smiled at it anyway.

Then she froze.

Behind her reflection, through the cracks, she saw the faint outline of someone else—closer this time, standing right beside her.

She turned.

No one there.

When she looked back, the reflection wasn’t hers anymore.

The face staring back was the man’s—expressionless, hollow-eyed, wearing her clothes.

The toothbrush fell from her hand.

She backed away slowly, heart pounding, whispering, “No… no, no…”

The reflection didn’t follow. It stayed perfectly still, watching.

Until it smiled.

A slow, deliberate smile that stretched too wide.

And then—her reflection stepped forward.

The glass didn’t shatter. It rippled.

Like water.

Neighbors found her apartment two days later after reports of a constant dripping sound. The lights were on. The coffee pot had overflowed.

The only strange thing, police said, was the mirror.

It wasn’t cracked anymore.

It was perfectly smooth, gleaming, and when they looked into it, for just a second, they swore they saw someone standing in the corner behind them—tall, still, and silent.

A month later, a new tenant moved in.

She was young, cheerful, thrilled to have her first apartment.

She noticed, during her first night, that the bathroom mirror seemed unusually deep, like the reflection went on longer than it should.

As she brushed her hair, she thought she saw movement—a dark shape behind her shoulder.

She laughed nervously. “New place jitters,” she said.

The reflection smiled.