The Reflection That Wasn't Me

I always hated the old mirror in my grandmother’s attic.

Its warped silver surface made my reflection look thinner, stretched, like a funhouse mirror, except it was anything but funny. Ever since I was a kid, I’d catch my reflection lingering a second too long after I turned away.

When Gran passed, the house became mine. I thought I’d sell it quickly, but nostalgia had its claws in me. I found myself exploring the creaky Victorian relic, breathing in its dust-heavy history.

One night, insomnia clawed at me. I found myself in the attic, drawn toward that damned mirror like a moth to a dying bulb. It stood, still draped in the faded lace cloth Gran used to cover it.

Against better judgment, I peeled back the cloth.

For a moment, it was just me. Sleep-deprived eyes, disheveled hair, hollow cheeks. I almost laughed at how haunted I looked already.

But then… I blinked.

My reflection didn’t.

I froze, breath stuck in my throat.

The figure inside the mirror tilted its head, like a curious child observing a trapped bug. Its lips twitched into a smile that didn’t reach its eyes. My eyes. Except they weren’t mine anymore.

I whispered, "What do you want?"

It moved its hand—my hand—but I hadn’t moved. It touched the glass, and cracks spiderwebbed from its fingers, distorting the smile into something monstrous.

I ran.

But the mirror wasn’t done with me.

Every reflective surface after that—windows, spoons, even puddles—betrayed me. I’d catch glimpses of it, my reflection watching me, grinning wider each time, closer each time.

I tried to cover every mirror. Smash them. But reflections are everywhere.

I don’t sleep anymore.

Tonight, it finally spoke.

In a voice just like mine, it whispered from the bathroom mirror:

"You’ve been staring at me your whole life, Olivia... now it’s my turn."

The light flickered.

The bathroom went dark.

And when the lights came back...

I wasn’t the one staring at the mirror anymore.