Behind Violet’s Eyes
August 7, 2025
You always notice her at the last second.
Never right away—not when you enter a room or pass a mirror. No. She comes in the blink between thoughts. A flicker in your periphery. A shadow where there shouldn’t be one.
But once you see her, once you really see her—
She sees you too.
Mallory had never believed in family curses.
Not when her mother told her that the women in their bloodline all died before thirty. Not when her older sister Lynn started screaming about eyes in the mirror.
But now Lynn was dead—drowned in her own bathtub at 27. Eyes wide. Water glass-still. A look of such terror on her face Mallory couldn’t even bear to remember it.
And Mallory was 26.
That’s when the dreams started.
In the dreams, Mallory stood in a hallway of mirrors. Tall, gold-framed, elegant.
But they didn’t reflect her. Not correctly.
In every mirror, her face was a little… off.
Sometimes her head tilted at a strange angle.
Sometimes her lips moved when she said nothing.
Sometimes her eyes weren’t hers—they were violet.
Violet like Lynn had described, weeks before she died.
Before she clawed her eyes out.
“I saw her again,” Lynn had whispered from her hospital bed. “The girl with violet eyes.”
Mallory had laughed nervously. “Like in a dream?”
“She was me. But not me. She looked like me, but she smiled wrong.”
Lynn had squeezed her hand. Hard.
“She’s getting closer.”
That was the last conversation they ever had.
Now, every time Mallory looked in the mirror, she flinched—half-expecting to see violet staring back.
Tuesday, 10:41 p.m.
Mallory stood in the bathroom, brushing her teeth, when she noticed it.
Her reflection wasn’t brushing.
It was smiling.
She dropped the toothbrush. Foam spilled down her chin.
The reflection blinked.
Then reached forward—pressed its hand against the inside of the mirror.
Mallory stepped back.
It mouthed something.
She leaned forward.
The reflection’s lips moved again.
Slow. Deliberate.
“Let me in.”
She covered every mirror in her apartment. Sheets, towels, black construction paper.
Even the screen of her phone.
She FaceTimed a friend and kept the camera facing the wall.
“I think I’m losing it,” she said. “Like Lynn. Like Mom.”
Her friend tried to joke. “Well, maybe don’t bathe alone.”
“Not funny.”
“No, seriously. If something’s following your bloodline, maybe it needs a reflection. Maybe it needs water. Something ancient.”
“Helpful.”
They ended the call.
That night, Mallory dreamed again.
This time, she wasn’t alone.
She turned from one mirror to the next, and every reflection had her—the violet-eyed girl—just a few inches closer than before.
She tried to scream. Her voice echoed like shattering glass.
When she woke, her sheets were soaked with sweat.
The bathroom mirror was uncovered.
Wednesday, 2:13 a.m.
The taps turned on by themselves.
Scalding water filled the tub.
She grabbed a knife from the kitchen and backed away.
The bathroom light flickered.
Then went out.
She could hear something breathing behind the door.
Whispering.
“One more. One more. One more.”
Mallory didn’t sleep for the next two days.
She showered only in the dark.
Every reflective surface was covered or smashed.
Even so, the feeling didn’t go away.
The feeling of being watched.
Not from behind.
From within.
She started seeing her—just for a second—in the corners of her eyes.
In spoons. In puddles. In the glaze of a coffee shop window.
Always those same violet eyes.
Always mouthing:
“Let me in.”
Friday night.
Mallory visited her grandmother in the nursing home.
A woman who hadn’t spoken in six years. Who’d been catatonic since her late twenties.
Mallory sat beside her. Held her hand.
“Did you see her too?” she asked. “The girl with the eyes?”
Her grandmother turned her head.
For the first time in six years.
She looked directly at Mallory.
Then whispered:
“You’ve already let her in.”
That night, Mallory tore the mirror off the wall.
But it was too late.
Because when she looked into the dark window, she saw herself.
Only… not.
Not anymore.
Her reflection tilted its head.
And her eyes were violet.
They found Mallory two days later.
Drowned in her dry bathtub.
Eyes open.
Smile wide.
In every mirror in the apartment, her reflection was still there.
Smiling.
Mouth moving.
“One more.”
“One more.”
“One more.”
And if you stare too long…
You might just see her.
Right behind your eyes.