The Old Mirror That Reflected More Than Just Me

It was the kind of antique shop you only enter by accident. Hidden between a boarded-up bookstore and a bakery that always smelled like burnt sugar, the shop had no name. Just a cracked wooden sign with faded letters and a bell that jingled even when the wind was still.

I walked in out of curiosity. The air smelled of dust and lavender. Old clocks ticked out of sync. Wooden shelves groaned under the weight of forgotten items—porcelain dolls, rusty keys, music boxes playing broken lullabies.

But one item pulled me in.

An old, full-length mirror.

It leaned against the wall at the back, draped partially with a velvet cloth. The frame was carved from dark wood, ornate and cracked, with symbols I didn’t recognize. Its surface shimmered slightly—as if it breathed.

The owner, a hunched old man with cloudy eyes, appeared from nowhere.

“You see it, don’t you?” he said.

“It’s... different,” I replied.

He nodded. “It shows what others cannot.”

I asked him how much.

He stared at me a long while and finally said, “Take it. But remember, never look into it at night.”

I laughed. Superstition, I thought.

I took it home.

For the first few days, the mirror was just that—a mirror. It reflected everything correctly. My bedroom, my expressions, even the small crack on the ceiling. I ignored the warning.

Then came the fourth night.

It was around 2:00 a.m. I couldn’t sleep, so I got up to get water. As I passed the mirror, I caught a glimpse of movement.

But I hadn’t moved.

I stopped. Turned toward the mirror.

In the reflection, I was smiling—but I wasn’t.

My real face was blank. Tired. Expressionless. But the reflection wore a grin I’d never seen on myself before—wide, cruel, and knowing.

I stepped back.

The smile faded.

I laughed it off. Lack of sleep, right?

But then... things escalated.

Every night, the reflection grew stranger. Sometimes, I wouldn’t be alone in it. A figure stood behind me in the mirror—tall, veiled in black, no face. Always behind me. Never beside.

One night, I covered the mirror completely.

The next morning, the cloth was on the floor.

The reflection began acting independently. I would raise my hand—it wouldn’t. I would leave the room—it would stay.

I tried to sell it. No buyer. I tried to throw it away. It appeared back in my bedroom within hours.

I even called a priest. He wouldn’t enter the room. Said the air “felt wrong.”

Then came the dream.

I stood inside the mirror. Everything was reversed. The room looked the same but wrong—colors slightly off, the air dense like syrup. And across from me was my reflection—but he was free.

He grinned and said, “Now you see. I’ve been waiting.”

I woke up in sweat, heart pounding. The mirror stood in front of my bed, uncovered.

That morning, I noticed something terrifying.

My reflection was aging faster than me.

Fine lines, wrinkles, tired eyes—I looked ten years older in the mirror than I did in real life.

I researched every symbol on the frame. They traced back to ancient Eastern legends—"The Twin World", where shadows are not cast but alive. A mirror, they believed, was a door. If kept too long... the reflection might become real.

I boarded it up. Locked the room.

But every time I passed the door, I heard whispers.

“Let me out.”

“You owe me your face.”

“You looked. Now I see you too.”

I moved to a new apartment.

The mirror arrived two days later, delivered in a wooden crate. No return address.

Now, I cover all mirrors at night. I avoid reflections in windows. Even my phone camera scares me.

Because sometimes—when I pass a dark surface—I see a face that isn’t mine... watching, grinning, waiting.