The Reflection

Lena had always hated mirrors. Something about them unsettled her the way they captured a moment, freezing it like a trapped ghost. But when she moved into her new apartment, an old Victorian-style building with creaky floors and drafty hallways, she found one already hanging in the bedroom.

It was tall, ornate, with an antique silver frame, its glass slightly warped. The landlord had mentioned it was original to the building, but Lena didn’t think much of it. At first.

The first night, she noticed something strange. As she got ready for bed, brushing her hair in front of the mirror, her reflection moved a fraction too late. Just a heartbeat of delay, barely noticeable. She laughed it off, blaming exhaustion.

By the third night, the unease had settled deep in her bones. She tested the mirror, waving her hand, tilting her head each time, her reflection mimicked her perfectly. Yet, an instinct she couldn’t shake whispered that something was… off.

Then came the whispers.

Soft, almost indistinct, they slithered through the silence of the night. Lena woke up, heart hammering, certain she’d heard her name. She turned to the mirror. The room behind her looked normal in the reflection, but something felt… wrong.

She stared at herself.

And her reflection smiled.

Lena froze. She hadn’t smiled. She hadn’t moved at all.

Then, slowly, her reflection lifted a hand and placed a single finger against its lips. Shhh.

She scrambled away from the mirror, nearly tripping over the bedside table. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

She covered the mirror with a sheet.

That night, she barely slept. Every creak of the apartment felt sinister. Every gust of wind through the old windows sounded like a whisper. But the worst part came at dawn.

When she woke up, the sheet was on the floor.

And the reflection was still smiling.

Panic gripped her. She grabbed her phone, researching the building’s history. What she found made her blood turn to ice.

Over a century ago, a woman named Eleanor Grayson had lived there. She had been obsessed with mirrors, believing they held glimpses of the afterlife. When her husband tried to get rid of them, she had flown into a rage, smashing every mirror in the house—except for one. That same silver-framed mirror.

Days later, her husband was found dead, his body twisted unnaturally, his face contorted in horror. Eleanor vanished, never seen again. Some claimed she had trapped herself inside the mirror.

Lena didn’t need to hear more. She packed a bag, refusing to spend another night in the apartment. As she moved to leave, she glanced just once at the mirror.

Her reflection was still smiling.

But it wasn’t her anymore.

It was Eleanor.

And as Lena turned away, the reflection stayed behind.