The Mirror That Watched Me Sleep

It all started when I moved into my cousin’s old apartment in Lahore—a modest, second-floor unit tucked above a quiet tailor shop in a narrow alley. The place was small, quiet, and cheap—perfect for a college student like me trying to survive on a tight budget. It had everything I needed: a working kitchen, a creaky bed, and a balcony view of tangled wires and rooftops. But there was one thing that didn’t sit right with me from the moment I entered—the mirror in the bedroom.

It was an antique, tall and oval-shaped, resting on a rusted wooden stand. The glass was cloudy in places, and the frame was covered in delicate floral carvings that looked almost hand-carved. The mirror seemed older than the building itself, standing quietly in the far corner near the window like it had been waiting. I didn’t think much of it at first. I figured I’d just sell it online later.

For the first few nights, I simply ignored it. It was just a mirror, after all—harmless, silent, forgotten. But on the third night, I woke up at 3:00 AM to an eerie whisper. Not loud—just soft, like someone was speaking from inside the room. I sat up, heart pounding, but the apartment was dead quiet.

When I looked toward the mirror, I saw something faint—like a shadow inside the glass. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and it was gone. Probably just a trick of the light, I told myself. Maybe my mind playing games.

The next morning, something odd caught my eye. There was a pale handprint smudged on the mirror’s surface. Small, but not mine. I lived alone, and I hadn’t touched the mirror. I wiped it clean, slightly unnerved. That night, before going to bed, I turned the mirror to face the wall. Just to be safe. Just to feel in control.

But that night, I had the strangest dream.

In the dream, I stood in front of the mirror wearing clothes I didn’t own. A white nightgown, long and old-fashioned. My reflection smiled at me—too wide, too forced, and not quite like my real smile. Its head tilted unnaturally, and its eyes seemed to shimmer like glass marbles. I woke up sweating, heart racing. When I looked over at the mirror, it had been turned back to its original position—facing the bed.

My skin went cold.

I immediately called my cousin, the one who had lived here before. I asked if he had experienced anything strange in the apartment. There was a long pause, then a soft sigh. He said, “Just get rid of the mirror. I should’ve warned you. I’m sorry.” Before I could ask more, he hung up.

I didn’t go to class that day. I planned to move the mirror out in the morning. But that night turned out to be the longest of my life.

I couldn’t sleep. I kept imagining eyes watching me. I buried myself under the blanket, afraid to open my eyes. At exactly 3:14 AM, the sound of wood creaking pulled me out of my half-sleep. It was coming from the corner.

I peeked out from the blanket. The mirror—still facing me—had a faint glow, like moonlight trapped behind the glass. Then, something inside moved. I wasn’t dreaming this time. I was awake, fully awake.

My reflection wasn’t mimicking me. It stood there with a twisted grin, slightly shaking its head like it disapproved of me. Then it tilted its head too far to the left, and the crackling sound of bones echoed in my ears.

I screamed, turned on the lights, and ran to throw a blanket over it. I didn’t sleep at all after that.

The next morning, I dragged the mirror down the stairs. It was heavier than I remembered. I took it to the alley behind the building and smashed it with a hammer. The glass shattered loudly, and a sudden gust of wind almost knocked me over.

For a moment, I saw something—like a black mist darting across the wall. Then it disappeared.

Since that day, nothing strange has happened. I haven’t heard whispers or seen shadows. I sleep peacefully now. But sometimes, when I look into reflective surfaces—car windows, elevator doors, or my phone screen—I swear I see something behind me.

A figure. A smile. A tilt of the head.

Not mine.