The Mirror Doesn’t Blink

It was nearing 1:30 a.m. when Eli Mercer’s phone buzzed with a new delivery request. He debated ignoring it—he was already five hours into his shift and one energy drink past tired—but the payout was unusually high: $120 to deliver a package less than six miles away.

The customer name simply read “A. Vale.”

The pickup was at a 24-hour antique warehouse in the industrial outskirts of Brookwood. No address, just a GPS pin dropped between two freight buildings near an abandoned train yard. Eli accepted it and pulled a U-turn under the sodium streetlamps, telling himself he’d cash out right after this.

The warehouse loomed ahead like a rusting beast. A single dim light flickered over a corrugated metal loading bay. The air was thick with mildew and old wood. No employees. No sign-in sheet. But just as he stepped onto the concrete ramp, the loading door groaned open on its own.

Inside, a lone crate sat on a dolly, marked with the delivery app’s red sticker and a hastily scrawled label: “DO NOT OPEN. Handle with care.”

That was it.

Eli wheeled the dolly to his trunk, half-expecting someone to stop him. Nobody did. As he drove off, the delivery address popped up. His tired eyes narrowed. There was no house number. Just: “13 Bellmare Lane.” He knew that name. It was that gutted, fire-charred manor at the edge of the woods. The one every kid in Brookwood whispered about.

The Vale House.

The drive took less than ten minutes, but it felt much longer with the fog that began pooling on the road and the eerie silence overtaking his music app—no signal, no playlist, just static. When Eli pulled into the cracked gravel driveway, the burned shell of the Vale House stood like a skeletal cathedral. Only one room—the east wing—seemed untouched by the fire.

He took the crate out, noting for the first time that it was strangely light. As he walked toward the house, the porch light flickered on.

No one had electricity out here.

“Uh… delivery for… A. Vale?” he called.

The door creaked open an inch.

“Hello?”

No answer.

Something deep in his instincts screamed to leave it on the porch and walk away. But the app required a signature, or no payment. And Eli needed the money.

He stepped inside.

The house smelled like wet soot and decaying fabric. The wallpaper had bubbled from heat damage, yet the floorboards beneath his feet were strangely cold. A hallway stretched ahead, pitch-black, except for one door slightly ajar at the end, glowing faintly from within.

He approached, his breath quickening.

Inside was a preserved sitting room, untouched by the fire—like it had been suspended in time. Dusty velvet chairs, unlit candles, oil portraits.

And a full-length antique mirror.

The crate, now on the floor beside him, vibrated slightly. Eli jumped. He bent down to check—was there a live animal in there?

As his fingers brushed the lid, the mirror caught his eye.

It showed the room… but with small differences.

The chair across the room was facing the wrong direction in the reflection.

One of the candles was lit.

And standing in the reflection, just behind him—was a woman.

Eli spun around.

No one.

His pulse hammered. He looked back at the mirror.

Now it showed him, but his reflection didn’t mimic his movements. It just stood there. Smiling.

No smile on his real face.

Eli stumbled back, knocking the crate open. A shroud of velvet peeled off what was inside: another mirror—identical in size and ornate detail.

The room’s temperature dropped instantly.

A low hum began, coming from both mirrors.

The one inside the crate flashed, its surface rippling like water. Then, his reflection stepped out of the mirror.

It was him… but not.

The thing’s eyes were hollow, shadowed pits. Its smile stretched too far. Its skin was paper-thin and almost translucent, as if it had been left in bleach. It mimicked his stance for a beat—then lunged.

Eli screamed and dove aside, crashing into a shelf of porcelain knickknacks. He scrambled to his feet as the doppelgänger hissed, stumbling like a puppet not used to its strings.

He grabbed the mirror from the crate and tilted it toward the thing. For a split second, it recoiled.

Then—it laughed.

Not a sound. Just a grin that widened into a silent scream.

Eli turned and ran.

He didn’t stop at the door—he leapt down the stairs, twisting his ankle but forcing himself up, adrenaline numbing the pain. He sped to his car and peeled off into the night, the fog swallowing the road behind him.

Only when he was miles away did he notice the object in his back seat.

A handheld mirror.

It hadn’t been there before.

Its reflective surface was pitch-black. Not empty—black. Like a void.

Eli reached to throw it out the window, but the moment his fingers touched the glass, his car’s radio screamed.

A single whisper over the static:

“You let it out.”

The mirror cracked in his hands.

And his reflection smiled.