The first time Mitch heard the voice, it was a whisper slithering through the dim bathroom light.
"You are beautiful, aren’t you?"
He jerked his head up, heart stuttering against his ribs. The old mirror above the sink reflected his tired face—bloodshot eyes, a five o’clock shadow creeping in uneven patches. Nothing unusual.
Yet the whisper felt real. Not the kind of real that you can blame on exhaustion or too much cheap whiskey. The kind of real that seeps under your skin and settles in your bones.
"What the hell?" he muttered.
The faucet dripped. Plink. Plink. Plink.
The apartment was empty. No roommates, no cat, not even a goldfish floating in a dirty bowl. Just Mitch and his damned reflection.
He leaned in. The mirror was old, the edges warped, silver peeling away like skin from a burn.
"You are beautiful, aren’t you?"
The voice slithered again, thick as honey, cold as grave dirt.
This time, Mitch saw something. A flicker. A wrongness. His reflection didn't blink when he did.
His stomach twisted. He reached up, touched his cheek, ran his fingers over stubble and oil-slicked skin. The mirror version of him followed suit, but there was a delay—a heartbeat too long.
Mitch swallowed hard. Just tired. Just fucking tired.
He turned away.
Then his reflection smiled.
Not him. His reflection.
His stomach dropped, breath hitching in his throat. His own face—grinning, wide and unnatural. Lips stretched just a fraction too far, eyes gleaming like glass beads in candlelight.
"You are beautiful, aren’t you?"
His guts clenched.
The smile widened.
Mitch bolted out of the bathroom, hands trembling, heartbeat slamming like fists against a locked door. The apartment was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that hums under your skin.
He grabbed his phone, fingers unsteady, and dialed. The ringing felt like a lifeline.
Pick up, pick up, pick up—
"Yo, Mitch, what’s up?"
Danny. His best friend. His anchor to reality.
Mitch exhaled shakily, running a hand through his damp hair. "Man, I—I think I’m losing it."
A pause. Then a chuckle. "Finally figured that out, huh?"
"Shut the hell up, dude. I’m serious."
"Alright, alright. What’s going on?"
Mitch hesitated. Saying it out loud felt… wrong. Like admitting it made it real. But the weight of the grin—his grin—still pressed against the back of his skull.
"The mirror," he finally whispered. "I think it’s—"
A knock.
Mitch’s breath caught. The sound hadn’t come from his apartment door. It had come from inside the bathroom.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Cold crawled up his spine, fingers numb around his phone.
Danny’s voice crackled through the speaker. "Mitch? Hey, you there?"
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Slow. Deliberate.
Mitch turned his head toward the bathroom door. It was slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness yawning between the frame and the wood.
Then—
A hand.
Pale. Twisted fingers curling around the edge of the door, nails blackened, cracked.
Not his hand.
Something else’s.
The voice came again, richer now, like something awakening from a deep, satisfied slumber.
"You are beautiful, aren’t you?"
The door creaked open another inch.
Mitch’s mouth went dry.
He did the only thing that made sense.
He ran.
Out of the apartment, down the stairs, into the night, his breath ragged, his skin damp with sweat. The city buzzed around him, neon lights flickering, taxis honking, and people laughing. Normal. Real.
His phone buzzed in his shaking hand. Danny again.
He swiped to answer.
"Jesus, dude, what the hell happened? You just hung up on me!"
Mitch turned, staring up at the window of his apartment.
The bathroom light was still on.
And behind the glass, his reflection stared down at him, grinning, grinning.
His own voice crackled through the phone, but Mitch hadn’t spoken.
"You can’t run, Mitch."
The line went dead.
Mitch didn’t go back to his apartment that night.
He sat in a 24-hour diner on the corner of Lexington and 8th, nursing a cup of burnt coffee that tasted like old pennies. The place was nearly empty—just a homeless guy hunched in the booth by the window, a waitress flipping through a gossip magazine behind the counter, and Mitch shaking like a goddamn junkie coming off a bad trip.
His phone sat face-down on the table. He hadn't touched it since the call.
Since his voice had come through the line.
"You can’t run, Mitch."
His own voice. The same cadence, the same rhythm, but not him.
Not him.
The coffee trembled in his grip. He hadn't even realized he was shaking so hard.
"You okay, hon?"
Mitch looked up. The waitress—Marlene, according to the cheap plastic nametag—was staring at him, one penciled-in eyebrow arched high.
"Yeah," Mitch rasped, clearing his throat. "Fine."
Marlene snorted. "Sugar, you look like someone pissed in your cornflakes."
Mitch forced a laugh, but it felt like a balloon losing air. "Just a long night."
She eyed him a second longer, then nodded toward his cup. "Want a refill?"
He glanced down. The coffee had gone cold, a greasy film curling on the surface.
"No, I—" He stopped.
Something in the reflection.
Not just his face, distorted in the rippling liquid.
A grin.
Wide. Stretching. Teeth too white, too straight.
Mitch shoved the cup away so hard it nearly tipped over. His pulse thumped in his ears, thick and nauseating.
Marlene blinked. "Alright then. No coffee. How ‘bout a slice of pie? On the house. You look like you could use something sweet."
Mitch swallowed. His throat felt raw. "No pie. Just—just the check."
She shrugged, scrawled something on a slip of paper, and slid it onto the table.
Mitch grabbed it, fumbling for his wallet. His fingers were numb like they weren’t his own.
Like maybe he wasn’t sitting here at all. Maybe he was still in his bathroom, staring into that mirror, watching his reflection smile.
"You are beautiful, aren’t you?"
A voice slithered across the diner, soft as a breath against his ear.
Mitch froze.
The homeless guy in the booth by the window was staring at him now.
His eyes—too wide, too dark.
The man smiled.
And Mitch felt something in his own face try to smile back.
He bolted.
Left a crumpled twenty on the table and shoved out the door into the humid night air.
The city breathed around him—cars honking, people laughing, neon signs humming like dying fireflies. Normal. Real.
His phone buzzed.
Mitch flinched.
It was a text this time. From Danny.
Dude, are you okay? Call me.
Mitch exhaled. Danny. Danny was real. Danny was his anchor.
He hit call.
The line rang. Once. Twice.
Then—
"Mitch?"
Danny’s voice. A wave of relief crashed over him.
"Danny, man, I—something’s happening. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s not right."
A pause.
Then—
A chuckle.
Not Danny’s.
Not his real laugh.
This one was off.
Stretched. Warped.
Then the voice slithered through the speaker, smooth as oil.
"You are beautiful, aren’t you?"
Mitch dropped the phone like it had burned him.
The screen cracked against the pavement.
He stared down at it, chest heaving, heart thundering.
The call was still connected.
Danny’s voice came through again, warped, distorted.
"Mitch… why’d you hang up, man? I just wanted to see your face…"
Static crackled.
Then—
His own voice.
"Pick up the phone, Mitch."
Mitch backed away. His stomach lurched.
The city around him felt wrong. The streetlights flickered, shadows stretching too far, bending at impossible angles.
His own reflection in the diner’s window watched him.
Not just a reflection—a second too slow.
The grin returned.
Too wide.
Too hungry.
Then it spoke.
His own mouth moved in the glass.
"I found you."
The streetlight above him exploded.
The world went dark.
And in the blackness, the voice whispered—
"You can’t run, Mitch."
Mitch came to a dark alley.
His skull throbbed like a drum, a slow, sick pounding that made his stomach roll. His back was against a brick wall, cold and damp, and the air smelled like rotting garbage and old piss.
He didn’t remember running here. Didn’t remember anything after the streetlight had burst. Just darkness.
And the voice.
"You can’t run, Mitch."
He shuddered. His fingers twitched against the ground, brushing over something sharp. Broken glass.
His phone.
It lay next to him, shattered, screen spiderwebbed with cracks. But the display was still on.
Still glowing.
And on the screen—
His face.
But it wasn’t just a reflection.
It moved.
Blinked.
Smiled.
"Mitch."
His own voice.
Mitch scrambled back so fast he slammed into the wall, breath hitching in his throat. His phone lay facing up, his broken reflection still staring.
The thing on the screen tilted its head, studying him.
Then—
It laughed.
Low. Wet. Like something choking on tar.
Mitch slapped the phone face-down. His chest heaved. His hands were slick with sweat.
This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.
"Jesus Christ," he rasped.
Footsteps.
Mitch’s head snapped up.
Someone stood at the mouth of the alley.
A silhouette. Tall. Too tall.
For a second, he thought it was just a man. A regular guy, maybe a junkie looking for a place to crash.
But then—
The head moved.
A slow, unnatural tilt.
Like a puppet with its strings pulled too hard.
And when the streetlight flickered back to life, Mitch saw its face.
His own.
A perfect copy, right down to the scar under his chin from when he’d fallen off his bike at twelve years old.
But the eyes.
The eyes were wrong.
Hollow.
Like dark glass, polished and empty.
It grinned.
Mitch felt something inside him shift.
Like an invisible thread pulling tight, tugging at his veins, his skin, his bones.
His body.
A sharp ache bloomed behind his eyes, deep in his skull as if something was crawling inside.
The thing took a step forward.
Then another.
And Mitch felt his own legs twitch.
Like they wanted to follow.
"Mitch," the copy said. Its voice was his, but stretched—just slightly off, like an old cassette tape playing at the wrong speed.
Mitch clenched his jaw. "What the fuck are you?"
The grin widened.
"I’m you."
His stomach turned to ice.
"No," Mitch whispered. "You’re not."
The thing chuckled. Low. Dark.
"Oh, Mitch," it purred. "Don’t be stupid. You looked into the mirror, didn’t you?"
A cold wave rolled over him. The bathroom. The reflection. The grin.
"You are beautiful, aren’t you?"
Mitch swallowed hard. His pulse pounded in his ears.
"This isn’t real," he muttered. "This is a dream. A—a hallucination."
The copy cocked its head.
Then it took another step forward.
Mitch’s body jerked.
His legs moved.
He tried to stop them, tried to push back, but his own muscles betrayed him, taking a shaky step toward the thing that wore his face.
A cold prickle crawled up his spine.
It was pulling him in.
The thing’s eyes gleamed.
"You feel it, don’t you?" it whispered. "The mirror doesn’t just show reflections, Mitch. It shows… possibilities."
Mitch clenched his fists. He could feel the pull growing stronger. His bones aching, stretching, twisting.
Something inside him wanted out.
"Fuck you," he hissed through gritted teeth.
The thing only smiled wider.
"It’s too late, Mitch."
And then—
The glass shattered.
Not his phone.
The mirror in his mind.
It felt like falling, like something ripping through him from the inside out.
And for the first time—
He saw what was really in the glass.
Not a copy.
Not a reflection.
Something else.
Something wearing his skin.
And it was so much hungrier than he was.
The alley tilted. The world spun.
The last thing Mitch saw before everything went black—
Was his own face grinning down at him?
But this time—
He wasn’t the one wearing it.
Mitch woke up somewhere wrong.
The air was thick, like breathing through cotton. His body felt heavy, his limbs slow and distant, like they weren’t his at all.
He blinked.
No alley. No city. No sky.
Just mirrors.
Everywhere.
A vast, endless hall of mirrors stretching in every direction, reflecting a thousand versions of himself—standing, blinking, watching.
His heart stuttered. He turned, but with every move he made, they moved too.
Hundreds of him. Thousands.
But they weren’t all the same.
Some had no eyes. Just smooth, empty skin.
Some had mouths too wide, lips peeling back over rows of needle teeth.
And some—
Some just stood there, grinning.
The smile.
That goddamn smile.
"Mitch."
The voice slithered through the mirrors, a whisper from nowhere.
Mitch stiffened.
One of the reflections stepped forward.
His own face, moving on its own.
No glass.
No barrier.
It stepped out.
Mitch stumbled back, pulse hammering. "Stay the fuck away from me."
The reflection just smiled.
"Why would I do that?"
It circled him, slow, thoughtful. Its eyes gleamed like polished glass.
"You let me in, Mitch. Remember?"
Mitch shook his head. "I didn’t let you do shit."
The thing sighed, almost… disappointed.
"You looked. That’s all it takes."
The mirrors shivered. A ripple, like the whole world was made of liquid silver.
And suddenly—
The other reflections moved.
Not just copying him.
Moving on their own.
Mitch turned in a slow, sick circle.
Dozens of Mitches.
Each one grinning.
Each one stepped forward.
The whisper came again, curling around him like smoke.
"You are beautiful, aren’t you?"
Mitch’s breath caught.
The reflections laughed.
All of them.
A rising chorus of his own voice, overlapping, warping.
The walls warped. The mirrors bent, cracked, and split.
And suddenly—
The glass wasn’t holding them in anymore.
They were coming out.
Hundreds of him. Clawing free.
Mitch ran.
He didn’t know where he was running—there was nowhere to go in this endless glass prison. But his legs moved anyway, terror pumping through his veins.
The laughing followed him.
Fast. Too fast.
Then—
A hand grabbed his wrist.
He screamed and jerked away—
But it wasn’t one of them.
It was Danny.
Danny, standing in the middle of the mirror world, looks solid. Real.
"Jesus, Mitch," Danny rasped. "We have to go."
Mitch blinked. "Danny?"
Danny yanked him forward. "Move your ass, man!"
Mitch didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.
Just ran.
Danny dragged him toward a single, unbroken mirror at the end of the corridor.
And for the first time—
There was no reflection inside.
Just black.
A way out.
Mitch’s lungs burned. The laughing was deafening now, clawing at the back of his skull.
They were right behind him.
Danny lunged forward—grabbing the edges of the black mirror, hands sinking into the glass like it was water.
"Mitch, jump!"
Mitch didn’t stop to think.
Didn’t hesitate.
He leapt.
Plunged through the darkness.
Fell.
He woke up in his bed.
His apartment.
Morning light bleeding through the curtains.
The city outside, humming and alive.
Mitch gasped, sitting up so fast he nearly toppled over. His skin was clammy, his heart a wrecking ball in his ribs.
A dream.
It had to be.
Just a bad dream.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
A text from Danny.
Yo, you good? You never called me back last night.
Mitch exhaled shakily.
Real.
Danny was real.
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady his breath. He had to pull himself together. Go outside. Get breakfast. Be normal.
He stood, stretched, and made his way to the bathroom.
The mirror was still there.
Whole.
No cracks. No smiling reflection.
Just him.
He let out a long breath.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "Never drinking that much again."
He turned to leave—
And the reflection stayed.
Mitch froze.
His stomach went cold.
Slowly, he turned back to face the mirror.
His reflection was watching him.
Standing just a little differently.
And then, slowly, so slowly,
It smiled.
And whispered, soft as a breath against the glass—
"You are beautiful, aren’t you?"
THE END.
📜 Copyright Notice & Caution to Readers 📜
© 2025 Abrar Nayeem Chowdhury. All Rights Reserved.
This Story, "You Are Beautiful, Aren't You?", including its title, storyline, characters, settings, dialogues, and original content, is protected under the United States Copyright Act (Title 17, U.S. Code) and international copyright laws.
⚠️ Unauthorized Use is Strictly Prohibited
Any unauthorized copying, reproduction, distribution, adaptation, or resale of this work, whether in print, digital, audio, or film format, without written permission from the author/publishe,r is strictly prohibited and may result in legal action under U.S. copyright law and DMCA (Digital Millennium Copyright Act) provisions.
⚠️ No AI, Fanfiction, or Commercial Use Without Permission
- This work may not be used for AI training, machine learning datasets, or automated text generation without express written consent from the copyright holder.
- Creating derivative works, including fanfiction, adaptations, scripts, or spin-offs, requires legal authorization.
- Commercial use, including paid promotions, film rights, merchandising, or translations, is strictly prohibited without a licensing agreement.
📩 For Permissions & Licensing
For inquiries regarding film rights, adaptations, audiobook production, or other permissions, contact:
📧 motivationbeast74@gmail.com
⚠️ Plagiarism is a Crime. Respect Intellectual Property.
Thank you for supporting original storytelling. 🙌📖🔥
Comments
Post a Comment