The Antique Mirror

When I first saw the mirror, it was leaning against the far wall of an old antique shop, half-hidden behind a stack of dusty chairs. The frame was ornate, carved with swirls of vines and roses, the gold paint chipping away in places. It had that kind of beauty that feels both inviting and unsettling, like it had lived a hundred lives before finding its way to me.

The shopkeeper noticed my interest.

“Careful with that one,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant. “It’s been here longer than I have. No one ever takes it.”

I smiled politely. People in antique shops always say things like that to make their wares sound mysterious. But something about the mirror drew me closer. The glass was old, slightly clouded, yet when I leaned in, it seemed sharper than any reflection I’d seen before. My face looked too clear, too alive.

I bought it that same afternoon.

At home, I placed the mirror in my bedroom, directly across from my bed. That night, I woke suddenly, as if someone had whispered my name. The room was silent, but my eyes went straight to the mirror. I expected to see my reflection, blurry in the dark. Instead, the glass looked deeper somehow, darker, like a pool of water under moonlight.

I shook it off as half-sleep imagination.

But the next morning, when I stood before it brushing my hair, something was wrong. The mirror did not show me. The comb moved through my hair, my lips whispered a test word, but the reflection remained still—an empty room, lit by pale light.

I stepped back, my heart pounding. Then, after a long breath, the reflection caught up, showing me again as if nothing had happened.

Over the next week, the strangeness grew.

Sometimes the mirror was normal. Other times, it lagged behind me, like a bad video feed. Once, I dropped my phone on the floor, bent to pick it up, and glanced up to see my reflection still standing tall, smiling faintly. I wasn’t smiling.

That was the first time I covered the mirror with a sheet. But every time I entered the room, I found the cloth pulled aside, as though someone wanted me to look.

The breaking point came one night. I woke again at some unholy hour, the room soaked in silence. My eyes slid to the mirror—uncovered. My reflection was there, but it wasn’t moving. It just stood at the edge of the glass, eyes locked onto mine, breathing slower than I did.

I froze. My chest tightened as I realized the reflection was not me. The hair was mine, the clothes were mine, but the eyes… the eyes were older, colder. And then—God help me—it smiled.

I bolted from the room and didn’t return until morning.

By daylight, everything seemed absurd. I told myself I was imagining things, the result of stress and lack of sleep. But the next night, the whispering returned.

“Look at me,” it said.

The voice was inside my skull, like a memory that wasn’t mine. Against my better judgment, I turned toward the mirror. The figure on the other side was closer now, almost pressed against the glass. Its breath fogged the surface, though mine did not.

“Let me out,” it whispered.

I stumbled backward, knocking over a lamp. The crash broke the spell, and I fled again, this time grabbing a blanket to cover the mirror completely.

I considered throwing it out, but part of me was afraid of what might happen if I moved it. Another part—more dangerous—was curious. What was the thing inside? Why me?

The shopkeeper’s words came back to me: It’s been here longer than I have.

The next day, I went back to the store. The old man was there, polishing a clock. When I asked him about the mirror, his face tightened.

“I told you not to take it,” he muttered.

“What’s wrong with it?” I pressed.

He hesitated, then sighed. “Some things hold onto the past. That mirror… it doesn’t just reflect. It remembers. Whoever owned it before—pieces of them get trapped inside. Sometimes, they don’t like being forgotten.”

My stomach dropped. “So what do I do?”

He looked at me, eyes heavy with something close to pity.

“You don’t look. That’s the only way.”

That night, I locked the bedroom door and tried to sleep on the couch. Still, at exactly 3:12 a.m., I woke. The whisper returned.

“Look at me.”

I squeezed my eyes shut.

The voice grew sharper. “You can’t ignore me forever.”

And then—something new. A knock. Gentle, rhythmic. Not at the door. Not at the window. From the mirror.

It’s been three nights now. I don’t go in the bedroom anymore, but I hear it from the hallway.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Every night, at the same time.

I keep the door shut, the mirror covered, but somehow I know—one day soon—I’ll find the cloth pulled back again, the glass bare, waiting.

And when I finally look, I’m afraid I won’t see myself at all.