It was nearly midnight when Clara finished unpacking the last of her boxes in her new apartment. The place was small but cozy, located in an old building with creaky floors and antique fixtures. She loved it—until she noticed the mirror.
The mirror hung in the hallway, its ornate frame tarnished with age. It wasn’t hers; it had been left by the previous tenant, and something about it made her uneasy. The glass seemed too dark, as if it absorbed more light than it reflected.
Brushing off her discomfort, Clara decided to call it a night. She turned off the lights and headed to bed, but as she passed the mirror, she saw it—a shadowy figure standing behind her. She whipped around, her heart pounding, but the hallway was empty.
“It’s just my imagination,” she muttered, hurrying to her bedroom.
That night, Clara dreamt of whispers—soft, unintelligible murmurs that felt like they were coming from inside her own head. She woke up drenched in sweat, the sound of the whispers still echoing faintly in her ears.
The next morning, she avoided the mirror entirely. She decided to cover it with a blanket, but when she approached it, her own reflection seemed... wrong. Her mirrored self smiled faintly, though she wasn’t smiling at all.
Clara froze, her breath hitching. Slowly, the reflection raised a hand, pressing it against the glass.
“Help me,” it whispered.
Clara stumbled back, her scream caught in her throat. The voice wasn’t hers—it was deeper, raspier, as if it came from something inhuman.
She grabbed her phone, intending to call the landlord to have the mirror removed, but when she glanced back, the reflection had returned to normal. Trembling, she threw a blanket over the mirror and avoided it for the rest of the day.
That night, the whispers returned, louder this time. They seemed to seep through the walls, surrounding her. Then came the sound of glass shattering.
Clara bolted upright. The mirror.
She crept into the hallway, her footsteps hesitant. The blanket had fallen off, and the mirror was cracked, its surface spiderwebbed with fractures. But it wasn’t the cracks that made her blood run cold—it was the figure standing on the other side.
It was her, but not her. The reflection’s eyes were pitch black, its smile wide and unnatural.
Before Clara could react, the reflection slammed a hand against the glass, shattering it completely. Shards flew everywhere, and Clara shielded her face. When she looked up, the figure was no longer in the mirror—it was in the hallway, staring at her with that same eerie smile.
The last thing Clara saw before the lights flickered out was her own face, distorted and twisted, staring back at her in the darkness.
When the landlord came to check on her the next morning, the apartment was empty. The only thing left was the mirror, now whole and unbroken, hanging innocently in the hallway.
And if you looked closely, you could see Clara’s face in the glass, her black eyes watching, waiting for someone new to move in.
