The Mirror at the End of the Hall

M Mehran

When Laila’s grandmother passed, she left her an old country house. It was filled with antiques—oak furniture, porcelain dishes, and, in the upstairs hallway, a tall standing mirror with an ornate silver frame.

“It’s been in the family for generations,” her mother said when they moved her in. “But don’t cover it. The mirror doesn’t like being hidden.”

Laila laughed it off, assuming it was just one of those strange old superstitions.


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Chapter Two: The First Glimpse

The first night, Laila noticed something odd. Passing the mirror on her way to bed, she saw herself—only, not quite. Her reflection lingered a half-second too long, blinking slower than she did.

She rubbed her eyes. “I’m just tired.”

But later, in the dark, she swore she heard faint scratching, as though nails dragged lightly along glass.


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Chapter Three: The Second Reflection

The next evening, she returned from work late. As she passed the mirror, she froze.

Her reflection was smiling.

She wasn’t.

The grin stretched wider, unnatural, teeth too sharp. Laila stumbled back, nearly dropping her keys. The image immediately mimicked her, lips pressed tight, innocent again.

Her heart hammered. She told herself it was a trick of the light, nerves, imagination—anything but real.


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Chapter Four: The Whisper

By the third night, she avoided looking at the mirror. But avoidance didn’t help. As she walked past, a whisper tickled her ear: Laila…

She spun around. Empty hall.

When she dared glance, her reflection was leaning closer to the glass, lips moving silently. She couldn’t hear the words, but she could see them forming: Let me out.

Her stomach dropped. She threw a bedsheet over the mirror, breath ragged.


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Chapter Five: The Warning

That night, she dreamed of her grandmother. The old woman stood in the hallway, pointing to the covered mirror.

“You can’t hide it,” she said sternly. “It doesn’t forgive being ignored.”

When Laila woke, the sheet was crumpled on the floor. The mirror stood bare, polished, waiting.


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Chapter Six: The Bargain

Desperate, Laila called her mother. “What’s with the mirror?” she demanded.

Her mother was quiet. Finally, she said, “It’s part of the house. Every generation keeps it. It… takes something from us. A piece of us. That’s the price for living here.”

Laila’s skin crawled. “What happens if I don’t pay?”

Her mother’s voice cracked. “Then it takes everything.”


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Chapter Seven: The Pull

The days blurred. The mirror grew harder to resist. Whenever she passed, her reflection beckoned, fingers tapping on the inside of the glass.

One night, exhausted, she stopped in front of it. Her reflection tilted its head, grinning, then lifted a hand to the glass. Without thinking, Laila raised hers.

The surface rippled under her touch, warm, like skin.

And then the reflection grabbed her wrist.


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Chapter Eight: The Trade

She screamed, but the glass swallowed the sound. The reflection yanked hard, pulling her arm into the mirror. Her other self’s face twisted with hunger, eyes black as pitch.

“No!” Laila shrieked, clawing at the frame. But her strength faltered. The reflection climbed out—her own body, her own face, but wrong.

It stepped into the hallway, perfect and smiling, while she was dragged inside.


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Chapter Nine: The Other Side

The last thing Laila saw before the glass sealed shut was herself—no, the thing—smoothing her hair, picking up her keys, and walking away.

She pounded against the inside of the mirror, but the surface only rippled faintly. Her reflection turned once, smirking, and whispered: Your turn.

The house fell silent.


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Epilogue: The Inheritance Continues

A month later, neighbors noticed Laila seemed… different. Brighter. Happier. Always smiling.

And at night, if you walked past her house and looked closely through the upstairs window, you might see her old reflection. A woman trapped behind the glass, hands pressed against it, mouth opening and closing soundlessly—begging someone, anyone, to let her out.

But no one ever does.