The Silent Witness

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I never thought much about mirrors. They were just things—tools to check my appearance. But the antique mirror in the thrift store caught my eye. The frame was ornate, tarnished, but elegant. I couldn’t resist.

The shopkeeper said it was from the early 1900s. That made me feel like I was bringing home history. I placed it in my living room, across from the window. The sunlight caught it just right. For a few days, everything was normal. The mirror shimmered in the light.

Then, one morning, I noticed something odd. As I brushed my hair, my reflection blinked. I hadn’t. I thought it was a trick of the light. But it happened again.

The next day, my reflection tilted its head. I didn’t. I froze. Maybe it was the angle of the mirror, I thought. But the strange things kept happening—small actions I didn’t make, but my reflection did.

One night, I woke up, feeling uneasy. I remembered the mirror across the room. I looked toward it. It was dark, but I knew. My reflection—it was watching me.

The next morning, I tried to ignore it. My reflection looked normal, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. The night before, it had felt too alive.

As the days passed, it grew worse. One evening, as I brushed my teeth, my reflection smiled. I hadn’t. I stepped back, heart pounding. My face wasn’t mine anymore. It grinned.

I wanted to get rid of the mirror. But something stopped me. I couldn’t explain it, but it had a hold on me.

That night, I heard breathing. Soft. Faint. I couldn’t move. I knew what was behind me. My reflection. Watching.

The next morning, I went to the mirror. My reflection wasn’t still. It was moving. It was walking, slowly, toward the edge of the glass. It wasn’t mimicking me anymore. It was doing its own thing.

I stepped back, fear filling me. My reflection wasn’t mine.

I covered the mirror, trembling. I knew it was too late. The mirror had changed. It was a window into something else.

Now, I’m haunted.

Every mirror I pass, I feel it. Watching. Waiting. It’s always there, in the shadows, behind the glass. Not me, but something that looks like me.

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