The Smile in the Mirror Wasn’t Mine

I was eleven when I first noticed something wrong with the mirror in my room. It was an old, ornate piece that my grandmother had left behind after she passed away. My parents hung it on my wall, thinking it gave the room character. But from the moment it arrived, things started to change.

It wasn’t the kind of change you’d notice all at once. No—this was slow, creeping, like the way frost spreads across glass in the dead of winter. The first time I felt it was at night. I had just turned off the lights, the moonlight casting faint lines across my bed, when I saw movement in the corner of my eye.

The mirror.

I turned to look, expecting to see my own reflection—but there was nothing. Just the dim outline of the room behind me. I laughed at myself, told myself I was being paranoid, and went to sleep.

But that was just the beginning.

The next time, it wasn’t subtle. I was brushing my hair before bed, standing in front of the mirror. My face looked tired, eyes half-closed. I yawned, glanced down to grab the brush again—and when I looked up...

I was still yawning.

My reflection hadn’t moved.

It stared at me, eyes wide, lips curled into a grin that stretched too far. Too wide.

I stumbled back, heart pounding. The reflection blinked once—slowly—and then returned to mirroring me, as if nothing had happened. I ran from the room.

My parents didn’t believe me, of course. They said it was a dream, or I was just tired, or imagining things. They even checked the mirror themselves, tapping it, laughing.

But I knew what I saw.

And it kept happening.

Each night, the reflection grew more... curious. It wouldn’t mimic me right away. Sometimes it blinked when I didn’t. Sometimes it mouthed words I wasn’t saying. Once, I watched it tilt its head—like a dog studying its owner—while I stood still, frozen in fear.

One night, I decided to test it.

I held up my hand slowly, fingers spread.

My reflection followed—but it was delayed. Half a second behind. I dropped my hand, and the mirror me kept holding hers up for a full five seconds longer, smiling.

That smile.

It wasn’t human. It was too much. Lips stretched tight over perfect teeth. Unmoving. Hungry.

I started covering the mirror with a blanket. That helped—at first. But after a week, I woke up to find the blanket on the floor. Folded. Neatly. As if someone—or something—had politely removed it.

That night, I had a dream. Or maybe it wasn’t a dream. I stood in front of the mirror, staring into the eyes of my double. She looked like me. Sounded like me. But when she spoke, her voice was wrong—like multiple versions of me layered on top of each other, echoing in opposite directions.

She said, “You don’t smile enough. Let me help you.”

I woke up with my mouth aching. My jaw was sore, stretched. I ran to the mirror—and there it was again. The reflection, grinning. But I wasn’t.

I opened my mouth to scream—and in the mirror, she laughed.

After that, it got worse.

I’d see her in other mirrors—store windows, bathroom tiles, puddles. Always smiling. Always watching.

I tried to destroy the mirror once. I grabbed my dad’s hammer from the garage and brought it up to my room, determined to shatter the cursed thing.

But when I stood before it, my reflection didn’t show the hammer in my hand. She stood empty-handed, head cocked, grin wide.

“If you break it,” she whispered, her voice inside my skull, “I stay forever.”

I dropped the hammer.

Now I avoid mirrors. I keep them covered. At school, I don’t look into bathroom mirrors. I wear sunglasses indoors. People think I’m weird. That’s fine.

Because I know the truth.

She’s still there. Watching. Waiting.

And sometimes, late at night, I feel my face twitch. My lips stretch on their own.

A smile.

And it’s not mine.