The Reflection

Rain splattered against the windows of the old farmhouse as Emma wiped the fog from the bathroom mirror. She was spending the weekend alone at her grandmother’s place—partly for nostalgia, partly to escape the noise of city life. But the silence here was too thick. Too aware.

She studied her reflection. Her face looked tired, maybe even older than she remembered. Behind her, the hallway stretched dark and quiet.

A sound.

A faint tapping from behind the mirror.

Emma froze.

“Nope,” she whispered. “Just the pipes. Old house, creaky walls. That’s all.”

She reached for the doorknob, but before she could turn it, the mirror rippled like disturbed water. Her reflection blinked—after she did.

Her breath hitched.

The reflection slowly smiled.

Emma backed away, slamming against the wall. “What the hell…”

The figure in the mirror raised a finger to its lips. Shhh.

“Nope, no no no,” Emma muttered, grabbing for the door again—but it wouldn’t budge. “Come on!”

The light above her flickered, and when it stabilized, the reflection was no longer mimicking her movements.

It tilted its head. “You shouldn’t have come back,” it whispered, voice muffled by the glass.

Emma’s knees buckled. “This… this isn’t real.”

The mirror Emma frowned. “But it is. We’ve been waiting.”

“We?”

With a crack, the mirror splintered—just slightly—right above the reflection’s eye.

Emma stumbled back, heart hammering. “What do you want?”

The reflection pressed both palms flat against the glass, its voice growing louder. “You left me here. All those years ago. With her.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “Her…?”

“Grandma,” the reflection hissed. “She wasn’t what she seemed. You know that.”

Images flashed in Emma’s mind—her grandmother whispering to herself in the dead of night, the strange smells, the time she found that dead bird under the bed, its beak filled with salt.

“I don’t—” Emma started.

The mirror cracked again. A hand emerged—pale, clawed fingers stretching into the bathroom like it was reaching through water.

Emma screamed and scrambled for the window, throwing it open to the storm. Wind howled in, knocking over a jar of old toothbrushes.

The hand was followed by an arm, then a shoulder.

“You’re not real!” Emma shouted. “You’re not me!”

The thing paused, halfway through the glass. “No. You’re not.”

Emma dove through the open window, landing hard in the wet grass below. Pain shot up her leg, but she didn’t stop. She limped toward the barn, screaming into the rain.

Inside the bathroom, the mirror shattered completely. Shards flew across the room as the reflection stepped out, now fully solid, fully free.

It looked around, then down at the broken glass.

From one jagged piece, Emma’s terrified eyes stared back—trapped.

The doppelgänger smiled and walked out of the room.

“Time to start over.”