The Mirror That Refused to Show My Reflection

The Mirror That Refused to Show My Reflection

I found the mirror at a yard sale on the outskirts of a small town in Vermont. It wasn’t anything special at first glance—a tall, narrow antique frame with vine-like carvings and a cracked backing. The woman selling it looked too eager to part with it, almost relieved. I thought maybe I was getting a good deal. I was wrong.

The mirror fit perfectly in the hallway of my apartment. Right outside my bedroom, it reflected the soft light from the wall sconces, making the narrow space look brighter. For the first few days, I barely paid it any attention. But by the end of the first week, I noticed something was… off.

One morning, rushing to get ready for work, I glanced at the mirror as I passed. But something didn’t feel right. I stopped, stepped back—and froze.

My reflection wasn’t there.

The hallway, the light, the door behind me—everything else was visible. But where I should have been standing, there was only empty space. Just air.

I blinked, stepped closer. Still nothing. I waved my hand. No response in the mirror.

A chill ran down my spine. I turned and looked behind me to make sure I was really there. I touched my face, my chest, my arms—still here, very much real. But in the mirror… nothing.

I laughed nervously, chalking it up to bad lighting or maybe something about the angle. I took out my phone and opened the camera to see if the lens would catch it. It did. I was there in the photo—reflected clearly in the mirror. Yet to my naked eye, I remained invisible.

Over the next few days, the problem got worse.

It wasn’t just that the mirror didn’t show me—it started showing someone else.

Late at night, I’d catch a glimpse of movement in the glass. Not mine—someone taller, thinner. Pale skin, sunken eyes, wearing clothes I didn’t own. The figure didn’t mimic my movements. It didn’t even seem to notice me. It just… stared.

At first, I told myself it was stress, or maybe hallucinations from lack of sleep. I tried to convince myself it was my mind playing tricks. But deep down, I knew better.

One night, unable to sleep, I stood in front of the mirror at 3:00 AM. My reflection was absent, as usual. But the figure was there—closer than ever, almost pressed up against the glass from the inside. It stared directly at me.

Then it smiled.

I stumbled back, heart pounding. The figure didn’t follow. It just tilted its head, like it was studying me. The next morning, I covered the mirror with a sheet and pushed a bookshelf in front of it. I didn’t care how much I’d paid. I didn’t want to see it again.

But mirrors don’t forget you.

Over the next week, the nightmares started. I’d dream of endless hallways made of glass, each mirror reflecting different versions of me—some broken, some dead, some screaming silently. In one dream, I saw myself trapped behind the glass, pounding, while that thing walked freely in my place.

When I awoke, sweating, I noticed small smudges on the inside of the mirror. Fingerprints. From the other side.

I asked my landlord if the previous tenant had left anything behind. He frowned and said the apartment had been vacant for nearly two years. The last occupant had disappeared—left everything behind. Police suspected she’d simply run off, but nothing was ever confirmed.

I asked what room she’d kept the mirror in. He hesitated.

"The hallway," he said. "Right where you put yours."

That same night, the mirror uncovered itself.

I had wrapped it tightly in a blanket and leaned a heavy piece of furniture against it. But I woke at 3:17 AM to a dragging sound and found the blanket in the middle of the hallway floor. The bookshelf had been moved. The mirror stood exposed.

And I was no longer invisible in it.

I was there—but wrong.

My reflection didn’t move with me. It stood still while I paced. It blinked when I didn’t. It smiled when I looked afraid. At one point, I raised my hand—and it didn’t follow. It reached forward.

I ran.

I left the apartment that night and stayed with a friend across town. I told her everything, though I could barely believe it myself. She was kind, but I saw the way she looked at me—like I was slipping into madness. Maybe I was.

I went back the next morning, determined to get rid of the mirror once and for all. But when I opened the front door, it was already gone.

All that remained was a dark, rectangular outline on the floor. Dust-free. Clean.

I checked every room. Nothing. I called the landlord. He said he hadn’t touched anything. But as he spoke, I noticed something behind me—in the hallway, faint and flickering.

The mirror was back.

But it wasn’t reflecting the apartment.

It was showing a room I’d never seen before. Dark. Cold. A chair. A rope. And a woman sitting still in the corner—eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream.

She looked like the tenant who disappeared.

She also looked… just a little like me.

I no longer live in that apartment.

But sometimes, in reflections—in windows, in bathroom mirrors—I catch that same empty-eyed face watching me.

Waiting.