The Reflection

The Reflection”

It started with a mirror.

Not just any mirror—but an antique, full-length, gilded frame with ornate carvings that looked like twisted vines and clawed hands. Marissa found it at an estate sale, half-buried under a dusty tarp in the corner of a crumbling Victorian house.

“I’ll take it,” she told the seller, mesmerized by the dark elegance of the piece.

The mirror fit awkwardly in her one-bedroom apartment. She propped it against the wall in her bedroom, across from her bed. That night, she caught herself staring into it longer than she meant to. Her reflection seemed just slightly... off. It smiled just a fraction too long. Blinked a second too late.

She laughed it off, blaming the flickering streetlight outside and her own overactive imagination. But the unease crept in.

By the third night, things began to change.

Marissa was brushing her hair before bed when she noticed her reflection move just a little out of sync. It tilted its head, as if studying her. Her brush fell from her hand.

She stepped back. The reflection stood straight and still, perfectly mimicking her fear. She shook her head and turned away.

That night, she dreamed of hands—cold, gray, reaching from the mirror to pull her inside. She woke gasping, drenched in sweat, and instinctively looked toward the mirror.

Her reflection was already standing.

She hadn't even sat up yet.

Marissa froze, breath caught in her throat. Slowly, the reflection mirrored her movement, like it had been caught mid-action and was trying to catch up. She closed her eyes, counted to five, then looked again.

Everything was normal.

Days passed, and the reflection became more unpredictable. Sometimes, it smiled while she cried. Sometimes, it mouthed words she never said. One evening, she walked into the room and saw her reflection already there, waiting.

She avoided the mirror as best she could—threw a blanket over it, but it never stayed. Somehow, every morning, it was uncovered again.

Desperate, she called in a friend, Jeremy, who dabbled in antiques. When he arrived, she explained everything. He laughed nervously, but listened.

“I’ve seen mirrors like this before,” he said. “Sometimes, they were used in mourning rituals. People believed they could trap spirits.”

“Are you saying something’s in it?” Marissa asked, her voice shaking.

He examined the frame. “There’s something etched here… Latin, maybe.”

She stepped closer. Faint letters were scratched into the wood beneath years of grime. Jeremy squinted. “Speculum est ostium. ‘The mirror is a door.’”

That night, Marissa dreamed again.

This time, she was inside the mirror.

Everything looked the same, but duller, colder. Her apartment was eerily still. She moved, but it felt like swimming through syrup. And across the room, standing just outside the mirror, was her reflection—smiling.

It raised a hand and waved.

Then it turned and walked away—with her face.

She woke screaming.

The next morning, Jeremy was gone. His phone went to voicemail. No messages, no visits.

Marissa’s reflection smiled more often now. Smiled when she cried. Smiled when she screamed. It started moving before she did.

One night, the reflection reached out.

Its hand pressed against the glass while Marissa sat on the bed, frozen. It tilted its head, and slowly, carefully, placed its palm flat against the inside of the mirror.

Marissa stood and walked toward it, as if pulled. Her hand trembled as she lifted it to meet the reflection’s.

When their fingertips touched, the glass rippled.

It felt like ice.

The mirror swallowed her whole.

Inside, it was silent. Gray. Empty.

She screamed, but no sound came out. The world inside the mirror was lifeless, hollow.

She ran to the edge, pounded on the glass—but no one could hear. No one could see her.

On the outside, her reflection smiled and waved.

Then it turned and walked away.

Living her life.

Weeks passed.

Marissa’s friends said she changed. She was quieter. Cold. Sometimes she didn’t recognize people she’d known for years. Sometimes, she didn’t even respond to her name.

One friend swore they saw her staring into a mirror for over an hour, unmoving.

They didn’t know the real Marissa was still in there—trapped behind the glass, watching.

Screaming silently.

Waiting for someone else to touch the mirror.