The Mirror Knows My Name

I found the mirror in a thrift store on the edge of town.

Tall, antique, and framed in twisted black wood that seemed to shimmer slightly in the light. A price tag dangled from one corner: £5. Practically free.

“Came from an estate,” the clerk said. “Old manor up in Surrey. House was empty for years.”

I should have walked away.

But something about the mirror drew me in. I brought it home and placed it in my bedroom, opposite the bed. Big mistake.

The first night, I woke up around 3 a.m., sweating. The mirror reflected the room perfectly—but something was off.

My reflection was standing. I was lying in bed, but the version of me in the glass was upright, watching. Its mouth moved, but no sound came.

Then it smiled.

I snapped on the lamp. The mirror showed only me, pale and wide-eyed, still in bed.

Just a dream. That’s what I told myself.

Over the next few days, things escalated.

I started seeing it during the day—glimpses of the other me moving differently, delayed, or ahead of me. Sometimes it didn't move at all when I did. Sometimes it stared long after I turned away.

On the fourth day, as I brushed my teeth, the reflection whispered:

“Elias.”

My name.

But I hadn’t said a word.

I dropped the toothbrush. The reflection didn’t. It just smiled again, the same crooked smile I never wore.

I threw a sheet over the mirror that night.

A week later, I tried to sell it.

I listed it online, took it to an antique buyer—no one wanted it.

One buyer even flinched when he saw the photo. “Don’t contact me again,” he said. Blocked me instantly.

When I got home that evening, the sheet was gone.

The mirror stood uncovered. Waiting.

That night, I heard whispering. Not just my name—other things.

“He doesn’t belong.”

“I see through him.”

“Let me wear you.”

I stopped sleeping. My reflection started changing.

Eyes darker. Skin slightly grayer. Hair slicked differently.

And always that smile.

I tried moving the mirror to the garage. Locked it in.

The next morning, it was back in my room.

Right where it had been.

I took it to a field outside of town, smashed it with a sledgehammer until it shattered into a thousand pieces.

I left the fragments there and drove home, shaking.

But when I walked into my bedroom—

The mirror was whole. Pristine. Back on the wall.

My reflection waved. I hadn’t.

Desperate, I called a medium. Her name was Lydia, and she came with incense, salt, and quiet eyes.

She stood before the mirror, silent. Then she stepped back.

“There’s something in there,” she whispered.

“It’s not you. It wants to be.”

“Can you get rid of it?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she lit a candle and began chanting in low tones.

The mirror rippled.

And then the reflection changed.

It wasn’t me anymore.

It wore my skin, but wrong—like a mask stretched too tight. The eyes were black pits.

It pressed its hand against the inside of the glass.

Then—so did I.

Unwillingly. My body moved without me. My hand rose, palm mirroring its. I tried to stop, but I couldn’t.

The candle went out. The room dropped ten degrees.

Lydia shouted something, threw salt at the mirror—

The glass cracked.

A terrible scream echoed in my head. I dropped to the floor. When I looked up—

The mirror was empty.

Just glass. Just me.

Lydia looked shaken. “That will hold it. For now.”

That was two months ago.

I boarded the mirror up, covered it in crosses and tape, locked it in the basement.

But sometimes—

When the house is quiet—

I hear my name again.

“Elias…”

And sometimes, in other mirrors—bathroom, car, shop windows—

I catch a glimpse of that same smile.

It’s still in there.

And it’s learning.

The End.