“The Reflection That Blinked First”

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I never believed in ghosts. Shadows, creaks, cold air—it could all be explained. But something happened last winter that still makes me question whether I ever left that moment.

My name is Alex. I live alone in a small studio apartment in downtown Chicago. It’s not glamorous, but it’s mine. Clean walls, creaky floor, a mirror from Goodwill that I hung across my bed more out of boredom than taste.

The mirror. That’s where it started.


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It was around 2:30 AM when I woke up thirsty. I got out of bed and noticed something odd: the room felt... off. Not colder. Not darker. Just, wrong. Like I had been copied and pasted into a glitchy version of my room. I brushed it off and walked to the small kitchen, but as I passed the mirror, I caught it.

My reflection blinked.

I didn’t.

At first, I thought I was tired. Or dreaming. I squinted, shook my head, even laughed at myself. But I stood there watching the mirror. I lifted my left arm.

It lifted its right.

I stepped closer. So did it. Perfect sync, like any mirror should be. But the moment I stopped moving, it didn’t.

It smiled.

I did not.


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I stumbled back, knocking over a stool. The noise snapped me out of my freeze. I grabbed my phone, turned on the flashlight, and shined it toward the mirror. My reflection looked normal again. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was sleep paralysis. Maybe too much horror content before bed.

I covered the mirror with an old bedsheet.

But something moved beneath the sheet that night.

I heard the hooks it hung on creak. Once. Twice. Then silence.


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The next morning, I wanted to throw the mirror out. But it was frozen to the wall. Literally. The frame felt like ice, and when I pulled, it wouldn’t budge. Almost like it had grown into the drywall. I gave up and went to work.

But all day, I couldn’t stop thinking: Did I really see that smile?

I got home, and the sheet was gone. On the floor.

The mirror was uncovered again.


---

Over the next few days, things escalated. My toothbrush would be moved. Clothes rearranged. Lights turned on by themselves. I even found muddy footprints leading from the bathroom to the foot of my bed. My apartment was on the third floor.

There were no signs of break-ins. I installed a camera facing the mirror while I slept. The next morning, the footage was corrupted. Just static and whispers.

I didn't hear the whispers when I slept. But I started hearing them when I was awake.

And I started dreaming of the mirror.


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In the dreams, I’d walk toward the mirror, but instead of my reflection, there was someone else. Same face. Same eyes. But the skin was cracked porcelain, eyes hollow, smile unblinking. They didn’t mirror me. They stood still.

Waiting.

I’d wake up with bruises on my arms. Finger-shaped. Always cold to the touch.

One night, I dreamed they stepped through.

And the next morning, I couldn’t see my reflection at all.


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I tried everything. Sage. Salt. A priest. The priest wouldn't even enter the apartment. He stood in the hallway, stared at the mirror through the door, and whispered, "You're not the first."

That night, I moved into a hotel. I stayed away for a week. No bruises. No dreams. No whispers. I went back only to pack my things.

But the mirror was gone.

In its place was a note. Scrawled in my handwriting.

> "Thank you for letting me out."



I checked my phone footage again. This time, it played. Just one clear frame: Me. Standing in front of the mirror. Smiling wide. Eyes black.

Only I was still at the hotel when it was recorded.


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I’ve moved far away now. No mirrors in the house. Only windows. I avoid reflections. I avoid my own eyes.

Because every so often, when I pass a car window or a dark screen...

...my reflection doesn’t blink when I do.