The house on Darrington Lane was not famous, not cursed, not even old enough to have history. It simply stood at the end of a crooked road, too far from the village to be convenient and too close to the forest to be desirable. The realtor had described it as “uniquely reflective.”
Evelyn saw this as a charm. When she signed the papers, she felt the peculiar pull of the place, with its wide windows, glass-paneled doors, and the way the sunlight seemed to multiply across every surface. Even the floors had a sheen that made her pause before stepping forward, afraid she might leave prints that would follow her later.
The first night, the air was filled with an expectant hush. The silence was so profound that Evelyn could faintly hear her own heartbeat, though she couldn't tell where the sound was coming from. Somewhere inside the house, perhaps within the walls or even in the glass itself, something seemed to respond to her pulse with a second beat.
By morning, she decided the sound had been her imagination. The rooms were uncommonly bright, and she liked to think the brightness had the kind of oppressive cheer that belonged in rooms that had seen too much cleaning and too little laughter.
It was when she unpacked her mirror that she first noticed.
The mirror wasn’t the large, round gilt frame she’d inherited from her aunt, but when she set it on the hallway wall, it seemed too alive. Its reflection captured more than what was behind her. When she stepped aside, she saw a figure still standing there: herself, yes, but slower, more deliberate. The reflection blinked after she did.
She laughed aloud, as if to undo it. “Just lagging light,” she said, and shut her eyes.
When she opened them, the figure smiled.
The house held its breath.
That night, Evelyn lay awake listening for footsteps. The sound came faintly from below, like someone pacing the hallway, soft, measured, always stopping outside her door. She wanted to believe it was the boards contracting in the cold, the settling noises of a new home. She wanted to believe it so badly that she whispered it aloud, again and again, until her own voice seemed to answer her from the other side of the wall.
And when she looked in the mirror again the next morning, she found handprints on the inside of the glass.
Evelyn did not sleep.
How could she, when every shadow in the mirror seemed to move?
Morning came like a false promise. The light spilled through the windows, but the air was still heavy, clinging to her skin as if it had been watching her all night. She made coffee, though the silence in the kitchen made every small sound unbearable. The spoon clinking against the mug, the slow drip of water in the sink, each one echoed as if another hand was doing the same somewhere close by.
She turned toward the mirror in the hallway. It stood quietly, waiting. The fingerprints were gone. But had she wiped them? She tried to remember, and couldn’t.
“Just reflections,” she whispered.
Yet as she moved closer, she saw herself again, her face pale, her eyes dull with exhaustion. But something was wrong. The reflection was not wearing her nightgown. It wore the red coat she had packed away in a box two days ago.
Her throat tightened. “What are you?” she said softly.
The reflection tilted its head, almost kind. Then it raised one hand and knocked on the inside of the glass.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Evelyn stumbled back, her cup crashing to the floor. Coffee spread across the tiles, thick and black. She wanted to run, yet her legs refused to move. The mirror trembled slightly, as though breathing.
Was it her imagination? Could glass breathe?
She left the room, pretending not to hear the faint scratching that followed her steps.
That evening, she found the red coat lying neatly across her bed. The same one she had buried at the bottom of the storage box. She stared at it for a long time, the color almost glowing against the pale sheets.
Had she brought it there in her sleep? Had someone else?
When she touched the sleeve, it felt damp, like fabric that had been worn outside in the rain. But there had been no rain that day. She lifted it slowly, and a folded note slipped out from the pocket.
It read:
“Stop watching me. Let me out.”
Her breath caught. Who had written it? Herself? The reflection?
That night, she covered the mirror with a sheet. She told herself that if she couldn’t see it, it couldn’t see her. But long after midnight, she woke to the sound of fabric tearing.
She sat up. The sheet was gone.
The mirror was uncovered.
And inside it, her reflection was no longer mimicking her movements. It was standing still, smiling faintly, holding something shiny in its hand.
A knife? A key?
Evelyn leaned forward, trembling. Her reflection whispered something soundless that she couldn’t hear. She pressed her ear close to the glass.
And heard her own voice say, clear as a bell,
“You are on the wrong side.”
Evelyn no longer trusted time.
Days passed or perhaps only hours, but the house had begun to move in ways she could not explain. The walls seemed closer, the air thicker, as if the house were slowly inhaling her.
She avoided the mirror for as long as she could. But the reflections followed her elsewhere. In the kitchen window, she sometimes saw her own face staring back when she was certain her eyes were closed. On the television screen, a faint silhouette would tilt its head just after she did.
She wondered whether she was seeing too much or not enough.
On the fourth morning, she awoke to find every mirror in the house uncovered. She hadn’t touched them. Some she had even hidden in cupboards, but they were all out again, placed neatly as if arranged for an audience. Each one showed a different angle of her face, though not the same expression. Some smiled faintly. Some frowned. One cried silently.
“Stop,” she whispered.
The reflections did not stop.
The hallway mirror, the first one, was brighter than the rest. The glass shimmered with a pale light, soft and trembling like a candle beneath water. Evelyn stepped closer despite herself. The other versions of her in the mirrors turned to look at her, all at once.
“Is that where you want me to go?” she asked.
And something, somewhere inside the glass, whispered back,
“Yes.”
Her hand reached out. The surface of the mirror was cool, smooth, and familiar. But when her fingers pressed harder, it gave way slightly, like skin.
A sound, soft, wet, and alive filled the air.
She tried to pull back. The mirror clung to her hand, holding her fast. Her reflection reached forward and took her wrist. Its eyes were darker now, its mouth curved in a smile that belonged to no human expression.
“Please,” Evelyn whispered, “let me go.”
The reflection tilted its head. “But you already came here.”
There was no time to scream. The mirror rippled once, twice, and swallowed her whole.
Silence.
A moment later, the hallway was still. Only the faint hum of the house remained, that breathlike sound returning to its steady rhythm.
Then, slowly, the reflection stepped out.
It looked around, smoothing the red coat against its body. The same red coat Evelyn had once buried away. It turned toward the nearest wall, seeing the neat row of mirrors, and smiled faintly at them.
In the glass, no reflection appeared.
Two weeks later, a new family bought the house on Darrington Lane.
The agent smiled brightly, assuring them the place had been empty for years. “You’ll love it,” she said. “It has such wonderful light.”
As they stepped inside, the youngest daughter stopped in the hallway.
“Mom?” she asked softly. “Why is that lady in the mirror waving at me?”
The mother looked up, frowning.
There was no one in the mirror.
Was there?
The End
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