The Watcher in the Mirror

The Watcher in the Mirror

Ever since Emma moved into the old farmhouse at the edge of town, strange things had been happening.

The house was beautiful—large, with wide windows that caught the light just right. It had creaky wooden floors, vintage wallpaper, and a fireplace that looked like it belonged in a mansion. It was the perfect escape from city life, the ideal place to start fresh after her messy divorce.

But there was something unsettling about it.

It wasn’t the house itself, but the mirror in the hallway. A large, oval-framed thing that reflected the old wooden staircase and the hallway leading to the kitchen. Emma first noticed it on her second day. She hadn’t given it much thought, but as the days went on, she began to feel uneasy every time she passed it.

It wasn’t just the way the mirror caught the light—it was as if the reflection stayed there a moment longer than it should. The hallway, the staircase, the faint shadow of her own form lingering, even after she moved on. Every time she glanced at it, it felt like something, or someone, was watching her through the reflection.

She tried to ignore it, but it wasn’t easy. And the more she tried to shake off the feeling, the stronger it became.

One evening, after a long day of unpacking, Emma stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair. The house was quiet—too quiet. No one else was around. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she couldn't help but look into the reflection once more.

At first, everything seemed normal. Her reflection mirrored her movements as she brushed her hair, the same soft strokes. But then, something shifted. The reflection didn’t move with her. It remained still, the image of her brushing her hair frozen in time.

Emma froze too, a cold chill creeping up her spine. Her reflection was still, but something else… something else was in the mirror. At the edge of her vision, she saw it—an outline. A figure standing in the hallway behind her.

Her heart hammered in her chest. She spun around, but the hallway was empty.

When she turned back to the mirror, the figure was gone.

But it wasn’t the last time.

That night, Emma lay in bed, restless and wide awake. The wind howled outside, the house creaking and groaning as if it was alive. Her mind raced with thoughts of the mirror. Of the figure. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t alone.

Just as she started to drift off, she heard it. A soft whisper, like someone speaking just out of earshot.

“Help me...”

Emma’s eyes snapped open. She sat up in bed, breath coming in short gasps. Her heart pounded. The whisper had come from the hallway.

Tentatively, she stood and crept toward the door. The hallway was dark, save for the faint moonlight filtering through the windows. She glanced over at the mirror.

And there it was again.

The figure.

This time, it was clearer. A tall, shadowy figure of a man, wearing a long coat, standing perfectly still at the top of the stairs, staring directly at her.

"Who are you?" Emma whispered, voice trembling.

The figure didn’t answer. It didn’t move. It just stood there, watching.

Her instinct was to run, but her feet were rooted to the floor, paralyzed by fear. She felt an icy breath on the back of her neck, and the whisper came again, this time louder, more urgent:

“Help me…”

Emma swallowed hard. She had no idea what she was dealing with, but something deep inside told her this was more than just a ghost. It was a warning.

The next morning, Emma went into town to speak with the local historian, hoping to learn about the house’s history. The old man at the town library didn’t waste any time.

“You’ve seen him, haven’t you?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“The man in the mirror,” Emma whispered, though she hadn’t told anyone about the figure yet.

The historian nodded gravely. “His name was Thomas Waverly. He lived in that house over a century ago. He disappeared one night, and they say his spirit is trapped, bound to the house. And to the mirror.”

Emma’s stomach turned. “How do I make it stop?”

The historian gave her a sad, knowing look. “You can’t. Not without confronting what happened to him. But be warned—he doesn’t want to be found.”

That night, Emma gathered her courage and returned to the mirror, determined to find out the truth. As she stood before it, the figure appeared again, watching her, waiting.

“Why are you here?” she asked, her voice steady despite the dread clawing at her chest.

The whisper came, but this time, it wasn’t a plea for help. It was a demand.

“Find me.”

With trembling hands, Emma reached for the mirror. She touched the cool glass, and the room seemed to spin. The air grew heavier, suffocating. And then, suddenly, the mirror shifted. A ripple ran through it, and a cold gust of wind howled through the room.

In the reflection, she saw something she wasn’t prepared for.

Thomas Waverly’s face—contorted, desperate—staring back at her, as if he had been waiting for her to unlock the mirror’s secret all along.