The Reflection

I’ve always had a strange relationship with mirrors. As a kid, I’d avoid them at night, feeling like if I stared too long, something would stare back. But, you know, childish fears fade with age—or at least, they’re supposed to.

A couple of weeks ago, I moved into a new apartment, nothing special, but it had this huge antique mirror in the hallway. The landlord said it had been there since the building was constructed, over 100 years ago. I didn’t think much of it, despite its creepy, weathered frame. I mean, it’s just a mirror, right?

The first night, I caught my reflection as I walked by. It was late, and I had just gotten home from work, exhausted. But something was... off. My reflection seemed slower, like it was lagging behind me by a split second. I chalked it up to my tired eyes playing tricks on me.

But it kept happening.

Every night, no matter how quickly I glanced at the mirror, my reflection always moved just a little slower than it should. One night, I tested it. I raised my right hand, but my reflection raised the left. Not even a hesitation—just wrong.

I tried to ignore it. I mean, what could I do? Get rid of the mirror? The landlord would never go for that. So I just avoided looking at it, pretended it wasn’t there. But every time I passed it, I could feel it watching me. My own reflection, waiting.

Then last night, I woke up around 3 a.m., thirsty. As I passed the mirror to go to the kitchen, I felt something cold graze my arm. My heart skipped a beat, and I spun around to see... nothing. But when I glanced into the mirror, my reflection was still standing there, staring at me with a wide, twisted grin.

I backed away slowly, refusing to blink, my pulse pounding in my ears. My reflection’s eyes locked onto mine as it raised its hand—this time, the right one—and pressed it against the glass. I stood frozen, watching as the reflection’s fingers pushed through the surface, distorting it like water.

I ran.

I slammed the bedroom door behind me, barricading it with a chair. I didn’t sleep. I just sat there, trembling, listening. It was quiet at first. But as dawn broke, I heard something from the hallway—a soft scraping, like nails dragging along wood.

I haven’t left the room since.

And now, as I write this, I can hear it outside my door. The soft creak of the floorboards, the faint breathing. It's waiting for me to come out.

I think it's hungry.