Chapter 18: Reflections in the Glass

I've always been fascinated by mirrors. They show you the world as it is—or at least, that's what they're supposed to do. But over the years, I've started to feel like they have their own hidden truths. They reflect everything back, yes, but sometimes, they seem to show something more. Something deeper. Something you weren't supposed to see.

It started small. Just odd little moments, really. A flash in the corner of my eye while brushing my teeth, or a strange shadow darting across the glass when I wasn't looking directly at it. I told myself it was nothing—a trick of the light, a product of my overactive imagination. After all, who hasn't seen something strange in the mirror at least once in their life?

But one morning, I saw it.

A hand.

It was quick—so quick I almost didn't register it. I was just combing my hair, half-asleep, when something moved in the corner of the mirror. Reflexively, I turned, thinking someone was behind me. Of course, no one was there. But when I looked back at the mirror, I could've sworn I saw a hand pulling back into the shadows. Not my hand. Someone else's.

I froze, staring at my reflection, heart racing. The room behind me was empty, the bathroom door still closed. I was alone. And yet, for a split second, there had been something else in that mirror with me. Something that wasn't me.

I tried to shake it off. Maybe I was just tired. I hadn't slept well the night before, and my mind was playing tricks on me. But the unease lingered. As I finished getting ready for the day, I kept glancing at the mirror, half-expecting to see something out of place. Nothing moved. Nothing changed.

But the feeling that I was being watched never left me.

---

The next few days passed in a blur, but that sensation—the one of being observed, like something was lurking just beyond my reflection—remained. It was subtle, like a low hum in the back of my mind. I tried to avoid looking at mirrors, as ridiculous as that sounded. But it was impossible. They were everywhere: in my bathroom, at work, in shop windows. Everywhere I went, there was some reflective surface staring back at me, daring me to look too long.

I managed to convince myself it was just paranoia. Stress from work, or maybe I was just more on edge than usual. Either way, I tried to ignore it. Until that night.

I was brushing my teeth again—my nightly routine—when I glanced up at the mirror out of habit. And there it was.

The hand.

It wasn't pulling away this time. It was resting on the glass, as if someone was standing just on the other side, waiting for me to notice them. My heart pounded in my chest as I stared at it, unblinking, terrified that if I looked away, whatever was behind that hand would come through.

The fingers were long and pale, pressed against the glass like it was trying to break free. But there was no face. Just the hand, resting there, impossibly still.

I dropped my toothbrush, backing away from the mirror, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from it. I stood frozen, a few feet away, feeling a cold sweat forming on my skin.

The hand didn't move.

I told myself it wasn't real. It couldn't be real. Mirrors don't just…do that. It had to be my imagination again. A hallucination, maybe. But as much as I wanted to believe that, I couldn't deny what I was seeing. It was real.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to step forward, inching toward the mirror with a mixture of dread and morbid curiosity. As I got closer, I could see more details—the veins in the hand, the faint tremble of the fingers. It was almost…human. But not quite.

My breath fogged up the glass as I leaned in, squinting to see if there was anything beyond the hand. Maybe a face, or a figure, lurking in the dark. But the glass was black. Just a void.

The hand twitched.

I stumbled back, heart racing, as it slowly pulled away from the glass, retreating into the darkness behind the reflection. My chest tightened as I watched it disappear, leaving nothing but my own terrified face staring back at me.

I didn't sleep that night.

---

The next morning, I couldn't bring myself to look in the mirror. I rushed through my routine, avoiding the bathroom as much as possible. The unease had grown into full-blown fear now, gnawing at my thoughts with every passing minute. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching me through the mirrors, something that wanted to come through.

That evening, I went to bed early, desperate to escape the feeling, but sleep didn't come easily. Every time I closed my eyes, I could see that hand, pressing against the glass, waiting for me. I tossed and turned for hours, my mind racing.

At some point in the night, I woke up to a noise. A soft tapping, like someone gently knocking on a window.

My heart skipped a beat.

I sat up in bed, straining to hear it again. Tap. Tap. Tap.

It was coming from the bathroom.

I swallowed hard, dread pooling in the pit of my stomach. I didn't want to go. I didn't want to see what was waiting for me in the mirror. But the tapping didn't stop. It was insistent now, like it knew I was awake. Like it was calling me.

Slowly, I got out of bed and crept toward the bathroom door, my hands trembling. The tapping grew louder with every step, more frantic. I reached for the light switch, flicking it on with shaking fingers.

The mirror was empty.

I let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through me. But before I could turn away, the tapping started again.

This time, it wasn't coming from the mirror.

It was coming from inside the house.