The Man in the Mirror

The first time I saw him, he didn’t come through the front door.

He appeared in the hallway mirror — not walking past, but standing still, staring. My reflection was nowhere in sight. Just his. Crisp navy suit, ash-gray eyes, and a smile that could either disarm you or unnerve you, depending on the angle. I blinked, and he was gone.

I don’t usually spook easily. Living in a hundred-year-old building in the French Quarter tends to thicken the skin. Strange noises. Disappearing socks. The occasional mysterious draft. Ghosts, I can handle. But this guy… there was something else. Something solid.

I told myself it was just a trick of the light. Shadows playing games. The next morning, my mirror behaved itself. No mysterious men. Just me, bed-headed and groggy, brushing my teeth and trying to forget the goosebumps from the night before.

Then it happened again.

And again.

Each time, he seemed a little closer to the glass. A little more real. Once, he winked. Another time, I swear he mouthed my name.

I did the rational thing — I bought sage, hung a rosary, Googled mirror demons for three hours, and then cracked open a bottle of wine.

Three glasses in, I stood in front of the mirror and addressed him directly.

“I don’t know what your deal is,” I said, half-laughing, “but if you’re looking for trouble, you found the right apartment.”

He responded by stepping forward. Not in the mirror — out of it.

One foot at a time, like it was a doorway. Not a shimmer, not a flash. Just… quiet. Fluid. Real.

I didn’t scream. I should’ve. But the part of me that had always craved chaos was suddenly very curious.

“You talk to mirrors often?” he asked, voice like velvet and storms. His eyes gleamed with mischief, but there was something ancient behind them. Something dangerous.

“Only the ones that flirt back,” I said, crossing my arms, despite the adrenaline now pumping through my veins.

He smiled, and I noticed his canines were ever so slightly pointed.

“Nice party trick,” I said. “You some kind of ghost? Demon? Or just a guy who likes dramatic entrances?”

He bowed slightly. “Let’s call me… an interdimensional traveler. Less stigma that way.”

I laughed, despite myself. “You always come through people’s mirrors uninvited?”

“Only when they leave them open.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Mirrors are doors. You humans forgot. But sometimes, someone leaves it ajar — during rituals, dreams, heightened emotion.” He gestured toward the wine glass in my hand. “Or just a really lonely night.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re saying I summoned you by accident?”

He shrugged. “You seemed interesting.”

The absurdity of it all began to wear off, and the curiosity returned. I watched him explore my living room — fingers trailing the edge of my record player, eyes scanning my bookshelf.

“So, what now?” I asked, leaning against the armrest. “Do you haunt me? Eat my soul? Steal my reflection for all eternity?”

“Tempting,” he said, glancing over. “But no. I was hoping for something more… cooperative.”

“Oh?”

He turned to face me. “I need a partner.”

I raised an eyebrow. “In crime or cabaret?”

His grin returned. “Bit of both. I perform magic — the kind that gets banned in seventeen dimensions. And I’m assembling a new act. You’ve got the energy for it.”

I laughed again, louder this time. “You stepped out of my mirror to recruit me into your weird interdimensional circus?”

“Technically,” he said, “you stepped into mine.”

Before I could question him, he reached out a hand. “What do you say? One night. A glimpse. If you hate it, I’ll vanish forever and return your socks.”

I paused. I should have said no. I should have locked the door, called a therapist, and prayed.

But that chaos-loving part of me was already moving.

“Fine,” I said, slipping my fingers into his. “But if this is a kidnapping, at least let me change into something slutty.”

He chuckled, and in a blink, the room rippled like water.

I stood in a place where gravity curled sideways and colors had flavors. The sky buzzed like applause. A stage materialized in front of us — empty, waiting.

He looked at me with reverence, like he’d just found the final piece of a long-lost puzzle.

“You’re a natural,” he said.

“I haven’t even done anything.”

“Exactly.”

Two months later:

We tour eight cities in two planes of reality. The act? A mix of illusions, seduction, and spells no mortal magician could replicate. They cheer, they scream, they throw roses and offer deals in blood.

I never returned to the mirror. Didn’t need to.

Because now, when I look in the glass, I see someone new.

Someone terrifying.

Someone brilliant.

And God, do I love a man in velvet.