The Reflection

"The Reflection"

Mira had never liked mirrors. Even as a child, she felt something watching her from the other side. When she moved into her new apartment, she avoided the antique mirror nailed to the bathroom wall. The frame was ornate—carved with twisting vines and snarling faces—but the glass was warped, as if something beneath the surface rippled.

She tried covering it with a towel. It always slipped off.

One night, brushing her teeth, she noticed something strange: her reflection didn’t move in sync. It blinked slower. It smiled when she didn’t.

Terrified, she shut off the light and backed out of the room. But the next morning, the mirror was spotless, her face staring back perfectly.

Maybe it was just her imagination.

A week later, Mira was getting ready for bed when she glanced in the mirror—and froze.

Her reflection wasn’t there.

Instead, it showed her bathroom—empty.

She turned to leave, heart pounding, but her reflection reappeared, now grinning, its eyes too wide. It raised a hand, beckoning.

Mira didn’t move.

Then the mirror rippled—as though the glass were water—and a hand reached out. It was her hand. Pale, trembling, but... wrong. Longer fingers. Cracked nails.

It grabbed her wrist.

She screamed and pulled, but the grip was inhumanly strong. It yanked.

There was a flash of pain, a sickening snap of bone—and then silence.

The bathroom was empty.

The reflection smiled, standing calmly in the mirror. It turned out the light.