The Mirror’s Edge

It was supposed to be a simple heirloom, passed down from my grandmother—an ornate mirror with a gilded frame, intricate carvings of vines and flowers twisting along its edges. It had hung in her hallway for decades, always pristine despite its age. She had always warned us, half-joking, “Be careful what you see in this mirror; it might see you too.”

When she passed, I took the mirror home. It felt right—a piece of her memory preserved. I hung it in my living room, a centerpiece among my otherwise minimalist decor. For a while, it was nothing more than that: a memory.

Until the reflection changed.

The first time I noticed, it was subtle. The room behind me looked slightly off, like the furniture was shifted just enough to make me question my memory. I turned to check, but everything was where it should be. When I looked back into the mirror, the room behind me was normal again. I laughed it off, thinking I was overworked.

But it didn’t stop.

One night, as I walked past the mirror, I caught a glimpse of movement—a shadow darting behind the couch. I froze, my pulse hammering in my ears. When I turned, nothing was there. I stared at the mirror, and for a moment, I thought I saw myself smiling.

I wasn’t smiling.

From then on, the mirror became… wrong. My reflection moved out of sync, lagging behind by a fraction of a second. Its eyes would linger on me after I looked away. Once, as I leaned closer to inspect it, my reflection didn’t. It stared back, its expression blank, while I recoiled in horror.

I tried to ignore it, to live my life as though it wasn’t happening. But the mirror wouldn’t let me. At night, I’d hear whispers coming from the living room. Soft, indistinct—as though a crowd was murmuring just beyond my comprehension. And the longer I listened, the more it sounded like my own voice.

One night, I covered the mirror with a sheet. It stayed silent for a week, and I began to hope that whatever it was, it had stopped. But on the seventh night, I woke to the sound of tearing fabric. My heart raced as I stepped into the living room, and there it was: the sheet shredded on the floor, the mirror exposed. My reflection stared back at me, and this time, it wasn’t alone.

Behind it stood figures. Shadowy, indistinct, but unmistakably there. They crowded the edges of the reflection, pressing against the glass as though they were trapped. Their faces were twisted, mouths open in silent screams. And yet, they never broke eye contact with me.

I tried to get rid of it. I smashed it with a hammer, but the glass wouldn’t shatter. I threw it into a fire, but the flames wouldn’t touch it. The gilded frame remained untarnished, and the whispers grew louder. Desperate, I took it to an antique dealer, hoping they could tell me what to do.

The old man took one look at it and went pale. “This mirror doesn’t belong here,” he said, his voice trembling. “It’s a doorway.”

“To where?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. He simply turned and walked away, muttering prayers under his breath.

Now, the figures are no longer confined to the reflection. I see them in the corners of my vision, flickering shadows that disappear when I turn my head. My reflection doesn’t even try to mimic me anymore. It watches, its smile growing wider every day.

Last night, I saw myself step out of the mirror. It’s still there, standing in the living room as I write this. It doesn’t speak, but I know what it wants.

When you find this note, know that I’m gone. Burn this place to the ground if you must, but don’t look into the mirror. Don’t let it see you.

Because once it does, it’ll never stop.