The Ghost's Reflection
- Pishaach
- Feb 18
- 6 min read
The mirror arrived at Holloway Antiques on a grey, rain-soaked afternoon. A relic of another time, its frame was carved from blackened oak, swirling with delicate engravings that seemed almost too intricate, too alive.
Dust clung to its surface like something forgotten, something that should have stayed buried.
Eleanor Whitmore, the shop’s owner, traced a finger over the ornate edges, shivering as a chill pulsed through her skin.
“There’s something about this one,” she murmured.
Her assistant, Daniel, set the crate down with a grunt. “It came from an estate sale. The owner… well, no one really knows what happened to him.”
Eleanor arched a brow. “No records?”
Daniel hesitated. “They found his house empty. Everything in place, doors locked from the inside. Just… gone.”
A hollow silence settled between them. The kind that lingers too long.
Eleanor smirked. “Perfect.”
She loved strange artefacts, the older, the better. But as she wiped away decades of grime from the mirror’s glass, a flicker of movement caught her eye.
Her reflection lingered a moment too long after she turned away.
Shadows in the Looking Glass
That night, Eleanor brought the mirror home. It stood tall in her bedroom, facing the foot of her bed.
The rain thickened, drumming against the windowpanes. The wind howled through unseen cracks.
Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled, though no church stood within miles.
She pulled her wool cardigan tighter around her shoulders and glanced at the mirror.
Her reflection was too still.
A prickle of unease crawled up her spine. She lifted a hand. The image followed, yet something felt… off.
Like the mirror was thinking before it reacted.
She shook her head and turned off the light.
Just as she was drifting into sleep, she heard a breath against her ear.
A whisper.
She sat up, heart hammering. The mirror stood silent, its surface glowing faintly in the moonlight.
Then, her reflection smiled.
Eleanor hadn’t.
The First Sign of Horror
Morning brought no relief.
She convinced herself it had been a dream, a flicker of exhaustion. But the unease sat heavy in her chest.
At Holloway Antiques, she distracted herself with ledgers, inventory, customer requests, but the mirror loomed in her thoughts, pulling her back to it.
That evening, as she stepped inside her house, something immediately felt wrong.
The air hung heavy, thick with an unspoken presence.
Her breath caught as she noticed the mirror.
She had left it angled slightly away from the bed the night before.
Now, it was perfectly straight, positioned so that it faced her directly as she entered the room. She hadn’t touched it.
Eleanor swallowed hard, stepping closer. The glass shimmered, the surface too dark, too deep.
Then, something shifted behind her reflection.
A figure.
Indistinct. Watching.
“Daniel?” she called, her voice tight.
Silence.
She edged forward, breath shallow. The reflection of her bedroom was wrong, the shadows deeper, the corners darker than they should have been.
And in the centre of the glass, half-hidden in the dimness, stood a woman.
Her face was obscured, but Eleanor knew, with a certainty that made her stomach drop, that the figure was watching her.
And smiling.
The Terror Grows
By the third night, sleep was impossible.
Eleanor draped a thick cloth over the mirror, but it never stayed. Every morning, the cloth was neatly folded on the floor, as if someone had carefully placed it there.
Then came the whispers.
Soft at first. Just her name. Then, more.
"Let me in."
She avoided looking at the glass, but it pulled at her, an unspoken presence pressing against her mind.
She forced herself to go out that night, meet Daniel for drinks. But even in the buzzing warmth of the pub, she felt hollow, untethered.
“You look like hell,” Daniel said, watching her closely.
Eleanor hesitated before telling him about the mirror. She expected him to laugh, wave it off as exhaustion.
Instead, he paled.
“That mirror?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s from the Calloway House.”
A cold weight settled in her gut.
The Calloway House. A name buried in old news clippings. A house where an entire family had vanished without a trace.
Except for one daughter, Clara Calloway.
They had found her alone, staring into a mirror, whispering the same thing over and over,
"She’s in the glass. She won’t let me go."
The Reflection Calls
Eleanor paced in her bedroom, the dim light of her bedside lamp flickering as the storm outside howled.
The mirror, uncovered once more, stood tall against the far wall, its presence pressing on her like a weight in the air.
She had tried ignoring it, tried looking away, but the longer she stayed in the room, the more it pulled at her gaze.
Her reflection was there, unmoving.
The whisper came again.
"Eleanor… come closer."
Her breath hitched. The voice was inside her head, yet originating from the mirror, soft, lilting, almost comforting.
She took a step forward.
The room behind her in the reflection seemed darker, like it existed separately from reality. The walls in the mirror were aged, rotted with time, and the wooden floor was warped and splintered.
She blinked.
Had the reflection always looked like that?
Another step.
Her reflection copied her movements, yet something felt different. The air was colder near the mirror, thick with something unnatural, pressing against her skin.
"Just a little closer…"
The voice was soothing now, almost familiar as if it had always been there.
Eleanor’s fingers trembled as she reached out toward the glass. The surface was cool, too smooth, sending a prickling sensation through her fingertips.
Then, A hand shot out from within, grabbing her wrist with an iron grip.
She screamed, trying to jerk away, but the fingers wrapped tighter, pulling her toward the glass. The reflection distorted, warping as if the mirror had become liquid.
And then, her own reflection was gone.
Standing in its place was her, but… wrong.
The eyes were hollow, soulless pits of black, the face stretched in an unnatural grin, too wide, too knowing.
The thing imitating her yanked harder. Eleanor’s feet lifted off the ground. She tried to scream, but no sound came out.
The mirror was pulling her inside.
The Glass Takes Its Own
Eleanor’s body slammed into the mirror, and the world fractured. She gasped, the breath ripped from her lungs as she tumbled into an endless void.
The air was thick and stale, pressing against her like water, muffling every sound. It was cold, too cold, the kind that numbed everything but fear.
She spun wildly, trying to orient herself, but there was no floor, no ceiling, only glass. Then, it shifted.
The world snapped into place, and Eleanor hit solid ground, but it wasn’t her bedroom anymore.
It was the same room, but different.
The wooden floor beneath her feet was warped and cracked, as if decades had passed. The walls were peeling, rotting, blackened with mould and time. The air stank of decay.
She turned, heart racing. The mirror was still there.
And standing on the other side… was her reflection.
Except it wasn’t a reflection any more.
It was her, standing in her real bedroom, looking at the mirror with calm, knowing eyes.
"No," Eleanor whispered.
The thing inside the mirror smiled. It lifted a hand, and Eleanor’s body copied the motion against her will.
Her arms moved on their own, her legs followed suit, mimicking the thing that now wore her skin.
The truth sank in.
She wasn’t in the mirror. She was behind it. She was the reflection now.
She pounded against the glass.
“No! Let me out!”
The thing pretending to be her only tilted its head, studying her like a specimen under glass.
Then, it stepped away. Eleanor’s breath hitched.
"No, no, don’t leave me here!"
She slammed her fists against the barrier, but the sound was muffled, absorbed into the endless silence.
The thing in her body smiled one last time.
Then, it turned off the lights. And Eleanor was left alone in the darkness, trapped inside the glass. Waiting. Watching.
The next morning, Daniel knocked on Eleanor’s door.
No answer.
Frowning, he pulled out his spare key and stepped inside. The house was silent, filled with that unnerving emptiness that made his skin crawl.
Her phone sat on the kitchen table. Her keys rested by the door. But Eleanor was gone. Then, his eyes landed on the mirror. At first, it looked normal.
But as he moved closer, something felt wrong.
He stared at his own reflection, heart pounding. The glass shimmered slightly, its surface too deep, too knowing. And then, for a fraction of a second, he saw Eleanor, inside the glass.
Her face was twisted in terror, her mouth moving in a silent scream. And behind her, the thing that wore her skin.
Watching.
Waiting.
Smiling.
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