The Shadow in the Mirror
Ethan had always hated mirrors. Something about them unsettled him, as if they were more than just reflections—windows into another world. He never voiced his fears, dismissing them as childhood paranoia. But when he moved into his new apartment, his unease returned.
The apartment came furnished, including an old, ornate mirror in the hallway. Its frame was blackened with age, carved with strange symbols. The landlord, an elderly woman with vacant eyes, had warned him, "Don’t move the mirror." Ethan had laughed at the odd request, assuming she was just superstitious.
The first night, as he walked past it on his way to bed, he swore his reflection lingered a second too long after he turned away. He paused, staring into the glass. Nothing seemed amiss. He shook his head and went to sleep.
The nightmares started that night. He dreamt of a dark figure standing in the mirror, grinning at him. It had his face but… distorted. The eyes were hollow, the smile too wide. It didn’t move like him—it twitched, jerked, as if struggling to copy his gestures. He woke up gasping, sweat soaking his sheets.
As days passed, the mirror’s presence became more disturbing. He caught glimpses of movement from the corner of his eye. Sometimes, his reflection would be slightly… off. A hand raised half a second too late, a blink that didn’t sync. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable. Almost.
One evening, as Ethan brushed his teeth, he dared to stare. The reflection stared back. But something was wrong. His mirrored self wasn’t blinking.
A chill crawled down his spine. He lifted his hand. His reflection followed. He tilted his head. The reflection mimicked. Then, for a fraction of a second, it smirked.
Ethan stumbled backward, knocking over a glass. It shattered on the sink. He spun away from the mirror, heart pounding. "Just my imagination," he muttered.
But deep down, he knew it wasn’t.
That night, he draped a bedsheet over the mirror. Sleep came easier. No nightmares. No eerie reflections.
But around 3 a.m., a soft rustling woke him. His room was dark, the air still. His eyes darted around. That’s when he saw it—the bedsheet was on the floor.
The mirror stood bare.
His reflection was smiling.
Ethan’s breath hitched. He didn’t move. Neither did the reflection. It just… stood there, grinning.
Then, slowly, it raised its hand and pressed it against the glass.
A whisper slithered through the room. Let me out.
Ethan bolted out of bed. His legs felt like lead, but he forced himself forward. He grabbed the bedsheet, his hands shaking, and threw it back over the mirror.
The whispering stopped.
For the next few days, Ethan avoided the hallway, avoiding the mirror. He couldn’t bring himself to cover it permanently—some irrational fear told him that if he looked away too long, something would step out.
On the fourth night, he decided enough was enough. He was being paranoid. He would prove to himself there was nothing wrong.
He stood before the mirror, gripping its edges. His reflection stared back. Normal. He breathed out in relief.
Then his reflection’s head tilted… but he hadn’t moved.
His stomach turned to ice.
The reflection’s grin stretched wider, too wide. Its eyes darkened, hollowing into deep pits.
Ethan stumbled back, his heart hammering. His reflection didn’t move—it just kept smiling.
Then it lifted its hand… and stepped forward.
Ethan barely had time to scream as the glass shattered outward. Something cold wrapped around his wrist, yanking him into the darkness.
The next morning, the mirror stood untouched. No cracks. No shattered glass.
And Ethan?
Gone.
But if you looked into the mirror, deep enough, you might notice something strange.
The reflection was still there.
And it was still smiling.
What do you think? Want any changes?
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