Fiction logo

In the Mirror

There's something wrong with the mirror

By R.J. WintersPublished 2 months ago 4 min read
In the Mirror
Photo by Luis Villasmil on Unsplash

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. I don’t think it always did this, but in all honesty, I can’t even recall how I’d gotten this mirror in the first place. I didn’t always have it, I know that much. I think I’d remember owning such an ornate looking mirror, but... I don’t know.

I hadn’t noticed the reflection at first. At a glance, it looked how I’d expect. But looking closer, i saw the discrepancies. The reflection’s hair was too long, and too dark in colour, looking more like spilt crude oil than actual hair. It’s skin was too pale, becoming almost see through, allowing me to see the stark blue veins all the more clearly.

Something about the figure seemed... sickly. It’s face was gaunt, eyes sunken deep into the face, cheeks concave. I’d seen figures like this before, in photographs of people after being forced to exist in horrible conditions. But that was just it. I’ve seen photos. And what I was looking at was clearly not a photograph. So... what is it?

I startled from my study of the reflection when it suddenly moved. It was minute, a blink and you’ll miss it sort of thing.

It smiled.

It’s razor thin lips were slowly pulled into a smile, with it growing wider and wider until a large, grotesque looking grin was plastered across it’s skin.

I felt cold, like my heart dropped from my chest. What was going on?

I stayed, staring at the reflection. My feet were rooted to the spot, unable to so much as shift in place. It felt as though I was paralyzed, like I’d foolishly looked into the eyes of Medusa herself.

And all the while, it grinned at me, looking at me with predatory eyes, like it wanted to eat me.

The figure moved, long spindly arms lifting up as it placed it’s hands on the ornate frame. I could hear the joints creaking, like they hadn’t been used in so long. It’s long fingers curled around the frame, reminding me of the long, thin knitting needles my grandmother had preferred. They looked like they’d snap so easily, but somehow I knew that I’d have an easier time breaking from a full metal strait jacket than I would if it grabbed me.

It lifted itself up, crawling out of the mirror while making a high pitched, clicking whine as it went, the exaggerated grin never once slipping.

And all the while, I couldn’t move.

It’s long hair trailed upon the floor, almost dripping with a viscous black sludge on the hardwood. It’s fingers gouged deep cuts into the wood, very nearly breaking all the way through. And throughout it all, it continued to make that clicking, whining sound. I wanted to scream, to throw up or sob. Anything but stand there, frozen to the spot.

It was fully out now, slowly straightening to it’s full height, it’s joints snapping and popping as it moved. It continued to stare at me, the grin never once faltering.

I barely managed to let out a squeak as it just stood there, watching me. The figure seemed to like that, it’s grin somehow growing even wider as it leaned in.

It reached out to touch my face, it’s fingers cold as ice against my skin. The nails were sharp, barely gracing my skin as it traced the freckles across my cheeks. It’d wanted to close my eyes, to stop looking at this... this thing before me. But it was almost like something was just holding them open, not allowing the lids to fall.

The figure leaned in closer, still making that damned clicking sound. I whimpered as it’s mouth opened, revealing a black, empty void. It’s tongue was a sickly grey, dripping with saliva as it emerged, trailing up my cheek, leaving behind a thick, sticky trail in it’s wake.

The tongue seemed to move on its own accord, twisting and curling, trying to poke and proud at whatever openings it could find.

And the entire time, I. Couldn’t. Move.

I could feel tears streaming down my cheeks now, the tongue quick to lap them up. The figure’s grin only seemed to grow even wider.

“Please,” I hoarsely whispered, my voice cracking as I tried to speak. “Please.”

The figure leaned in closer, it’s black, empty eyes looking directly into my own. It almost seemed pleased about my fear, like it was a gift.

“Soon,” It purred, still clicking. “Soon.”

It’s raspy voice made a chill run down my spine. And all the while, I couldn’t move.

Then, all at once, it pulled away, it’s long nails scrapping against my skin, leaving long, unbroken scratches. It never broke eye contact as it crawled back into the mirror, it’s grin never slipping.

Only when it got back it was I able to finally blink. I closed my eyes tightly so that I didn’t have to look at this... this thing. But that didn’t stop the full body shudder from finally overtaking me as the figure left with it’s final words.

“Very... soon.”

Short StoryHorror

About the Creator

R.J. Winters

A collection of short stories and excerpts I've written in various genres. Because picking just one genre isn't as much fun as having multiple genres in your pocket.


My Twitter

My Pillowfort

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights


There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2023 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.