The Shadow in My Mirror Moved When I Didn’t

The mirror came with the house. A heavy, antique thing with a chipped gilt frame, it hung in the upstairs hallway of my new rental, a creaky Victorian in a forgotten corner of town. I’m not superstitious, but something about its cloudy glass unsettled me. At night, it seemed to watch. By day, it showed my reflection—ordinary, tired, 30-something me. Until it didn’t.

It started three weeks ago, after a long shift at the diner. I dragged myself upstairs, the house groaning under my steps. In the dim hallway light, I glanced at the mirror. My reflection stared back, but its eyes lingered a fraction too long. I blinked, and it blinked. I tilted my head, and it followed. “Overworked,” I muttered, shaking it off. But the air felt heavy, like someone else was breathing it.

The next night, it happened. I stood brushing my teeth, the mirror catching my profile. My reflection moved—a slow, deliberate turn of its head while I stood frozen, toothbrush mid-air. My heart thudded. I dropped the brush, splashing toothpaste on the floor. The reflection smirked. I didn’t. I backed away, pulse racing, and avoided the hallway for days.

The next night, it happened. I stood brushing my teeth, the mirror catching my profile. My reflection moved—a slow, deliberate turn of its head while I stood frozen, toothbrush mid-air. My heart thudded. I dropped the brush, splashing toothpaste on the floor. The reflection smirked. I didn’t. I backed away, pulse racing, and avoided the hallway for days.

I tried covering it with a sheet. It fell off by morning. I turned it to face the wall. The next day, it was back, glass gleaming like it knew my fear. My phone camera wouldn’t capture it right—the reflection blurred, like fog swallowing my image. I called my landlord, a gruff old man who laughed. “Old houses have quirks,” he said. “Burn some sage if you’re spooked.” I didn’t tell him the sage bundle I bought turned to ash in my drawer overnight.

By week two, the mirror started whispering. Not words, but a low, guttural hum, like wind through a cracked window. I’d hear it at 3 a.m., pulling me from sleep. I’d stumble to the hallway, and there it was—my reflection, but wrong. Its lips curled too wide, its eyes too dark, like pits swallowing light. One night, it raised a hand I didn’t move, fingers clawing at the glass from the inside. I screamed, tripping over the rug, and the hum stopped. The house went silent, but the mirror’s glass rippled, just for a second.

I researched paranormal encounters, desperate for answers. Local history mentioned a woman who vanished in this house decades ago, her belongings left behind, including a mirror. My stomach sank. Was she trapped in it? Was it her? I tried ignoring it, but the mirror’s pull grew stronger. Lights flickered when I passed it. My dreams filled with a faceless shadow mimicking my every move, mocking me

Last night, I couldn’t take it anymore. Armed with a hammer, I faced the mirror. My reflection stood still, but its eyes glinted with something alive, something else. “What do you want?” I whispered. The hum returned, louder, vibrating in my chest. My reflection stepped closer to the glass, though I hadn’t moved.

Its mouth opened, and a voice—not mine—hissed, “You.i swung the hammer. The glass shattered, shards exploding across the hallway. The hum became a scream, then silence. Blood trickled from my hand, cut by a flying piece. I sank to the floor, shaking, thinking it was over. But the house felt wrong. The air was thick, oppressive, like a storm about to break.This morning, I cleaned up the glass. The frame stood empty, but the wall behind it was scorched, a faint outline of a figure burned into the plaster. I moved out by noon, leaving the key in the mailbox. I don’t know what was in that mirror, but I feel it watching me still. Last night, in my new apartment, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. It blinked when I didn’t.

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