My name is David, and I’m writing this because I don’t know where else to turn. I’m not crazy, at least I don’t think I am, but something has been happening in my house, and it’s all connected to the mirrors. I need to tell someone, anyone, before it’s too late.
It started about three months ago, not long after I moved into this old Victorian house on the edge of town. The place was a steal—beautifully restored, with all the original woodwork and charm of the era. I couldn’t believe my luck when I found it. The previous owners had left in a hurry, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. I was just happy to have found a place I could afford.
The first few weeks were fine. I was busy unpacking, settling in, getting used to the creaks and groans of an old house. But then, I started noticing things—small things, at first. A sense that something was off, that I wasn’t alone. I chalked it up to nerves, to being in a new place, but it got worse.
It started with the mirror in the hallway. It’s an antique, left behind by the previous owners, and it fits perfectly with the house’s aesthetic. But one night, as I was passing by it on my way to bed, I saw something—someone—in the reflection. I stopped, thinking maybe it was just a trick of the light or my tired eyes playing tricks on me, but when I looked closer, the figure was still there.
It was a man, standing just behind me, staring into the mirror. He was tall, with dark, sunken eyes and a gaunt face. His clothes were old-fashioned, like something out of the 19th century, and his expression… it was like he was angry, but also sad, like he was trapped.
I spun around, but of course, no one was there. My heart was pounding, but I tried to convince myself it was just a hallucination, maybe a shadow or some reflection from outside. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the man had been real, that he had been watching me.
After that, I started seeing him more often. It was always in the mirrors—never directly, always just in the corner of my eye or in a fleeting glance as I walked by. Each time, he seemed a little closer, a little clearer. I started avoiding the mirrors, keeping my eyes down as I passed by, but it didn’t help. The more I tried to ignore him, the more persistent he became.
One night, I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom when I saw him again, standing right behind me. This time, his face was twisted into a grotesque grin, his eyes wide with something like excitement. I dropped my toothbrush and spun around, but again, nothing. The room was empty, but the feeling of being watched lingered, heavy and oppressive.
I tried to rationalize it, telling myself it was just stress, that I was imagining things. But then, things started to get worse. The man in the mirror began to move on his own. I would catch glimpses of him mimicking my actions, but with a delay, like a distorted reflection. He would raise his hand when I did, but a second too late, and his movements were always slightly off, like a poorly synced video. Sometimes, he wouldn’t move at all, just staring at me with those dark, empty eyes.
The final straw came about a week ago. I was in the hallway, passing by the mirror, when I saw him again. But this time, something was different. He wasn’t just standing there—he was reaching out, his hand pressed against the glass, as if trying to push through.
I froze, my heart hammering in my chest. I could see his fingers pressing against the surface, the glass warping slightly under the pressure. And then, to my horror, his hand started to emerge from the mirror, pale and skeletal, reaching toward me.
I stumbled back, nearly tripping over my own feet as I ran from the hallway. I locked myself in my bedroom, breathing hard, trying to convince myself that it wasn’t real, that it was just a nightmare. But I couldn’t stop shaking, and I knew deep down that what I had seen was real.
Since then, I’ve covered all the mirrors in the house, but it doesn’t help. I can still feel him, always watching, waiting. Sometimes, I think I can hear him, whispering from behind the glass, his voice low and hoarse, but I can never make out the words. I haven’t slept in days, too afraid of what might happen if I let my guard down.
I don’t know what to do. I can’t stay here, but I’m terrified to leave. What if he follows me? What if he’s not bound to the mirrors, but to me? I feel like I’m losing my mind, like he’s slowly wearing me down, waiting for the moment when I finally break.
Please, if you’re reading this, if you have any idea what’s happening to me, help me. I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. I’m afraid that one day soon, I’ll look into a mirror and see him staring back at me from the other side—only this time, it won’t be a reflection. It’ll be him, and I’ll be the one trapped inside, just like he was.
