He Went to the Bathroom Without Knowing That There Was a…
He went to the bathroom without knowing that there was a mirror that didn’t reflect him.
It was late—past midnight—and the house was quiet except for the occasional creak of old wood settling. Darren had just moved in that morning, a modest two-bedroom colonial tucked away at the edge of a sleepy town. The realtor had called it “charming,” which usually meant “needs work.” But Darren didn’t mind. He needed a fresh start, and the house, with its ivy-covered porch and crooked chimney, felt like the kind of place where a man could disappear and begin again.
The bathroom was on the second floor, tucked between the guest room and the attic door. Darren hadn’t used it yet. He’d spent most of the day unpacking, eating cold pizza, and ignoring the dozens of unread texts from people he no longer wanted to explain himself to. He was tired, sore, and ready to wash up before collapsing into bed.
He flicked on the bathroom light. It buzzed faintly, casting a yellow glow over the cracked tiles and clawfoot tub. The mirror above the sink was oval-shaped, framed in tarnished brass. He leaned in to inspect his face—grime from the move, a smudge of sauce on his cheek—but the mirror stared back, blank.
No reflection.
He blinked. Stepped back. Leaned in again.
Still nothing.
His heart thudded once, hard. He waved his hand in front of the glass. Nothing. The mirror showed the room behind him—the towel rack, the faded wallpaper, the door—but not him.
He turned off the light. Turned it back on.
Still nothing.
He wasn’t drunk. He hadn’t taken anything. He wasn’t sleep-deprived enough to hallucinate. And yet, the mirror refused to acknowledge his existence.
He backed out of the bathroom slowly, never taking his eyes off the glass. In the hallway, he found another mirror—an old standing one near the linen closet. He stepped in front of it.
His reflection stared back, pale and confused.
So it was just the bathroom mirror.
Darren returned, cautiously. The mirror was still blank. He reached out and touched the glass. Cold. Solid. Real.
He should have left it alone. Called someone. Taken it down. But something about it pulled at him—like a puzzle begging to be solved.
He sat on the edge of the tub and stared at the mirror for what felt like hours. At some point, he noticed something else: the room behind him in the mirror wasn’t quite right. The wallpaper pattern was reversed. The towel rack was missing. And the door—it was closed in the mirror, though he’d left it open.
He stood up. Turned around.
The door was open.
He turned back to the mirror.
Closed.
He stepped closer. Squinted.
There was movement.
In the mirror, the door creaked open slowly. A figure stepped through—tall, thin, wearing clothes that looked like his, but not quite. The figure had no face. Just a smooth, pale surface where eyes and a mouth should be.
Darren stumbled back, heart racing.
The figure in the mirror tilted its head.
Then it raised a hand and pointed—directly at him.
Darren ran.
He didn’t stop to grab his phone or keys. He bolted down the stairs, out the front door, into the night. The air was cool and damp, the street empty. He ran until his lungs burned, until the house was a distant shadow behind him.
He spent the night in his car, parked outside a 24-hour diner. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t eat. He just sat there, staring at the dashboard, trying to make sense of what he’d seen.
By morning, he convinced himself it had been a dream. A trick of the light. Stress. He returned to the house cautiously, half-expecting it to be gone, like something from a fevered nightmare.
But it was there. Quiet. Still.
He avoided the bathroom. Used the downstairs one instead. But the upstairs mirror haunted him. He could feel it watching, waiting.
Days passed. Then weeks.
He started hearing things—soft footsteps in the attic, whispers behind closed doors. The mirror remained blank, but the figure appeared more often. Sometimes it stood still. Sometimes it moved. Sometimes it mimicked him, raising a hand, tilting its head, stepping forward.
One night, he found the bathroom door closed. He hadn’t closed it.
Inside, the mirror was covered with a sheet.
He hadn’t done that either.
He pulled the sheet away.
The mirror was shattered.
But behind the cracks, the figure remained—clearer than ever.
It smiled.
