Mirrors

Written and designed by: Avelyn (25-A2)

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March 9th

The sky hung low and bruised, swollen with the last light of day as Myra slammed the car door shut with a bang. The old Toyota trembled under the force of the blow as she trudged down the street, coffee cup in one hand and her work bag in the other. Swatting at a fly buzzing in her ear, the lid of the coffee cup came loose and a good portion of the coffee splashed onto her white blouse.

Just great. 

She flicked her hand, coffee trickling down her arm. 

Taking a deep breath, she lifted her blouse to examine the stain. Nothing some soaking wouldn’t fix.

Just then, a pigeon soared overhead, flapping its wings as it dropped a globule of viscous…liquid that fell squarely onto her head.  Myra squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing the scream that built up in her throat.

It did not help that her infuriating coworker Brian had taken full credit for the project that she had been working on for years today. He had been incompetent at best and a sizeable waste of space at worst, during the course of the project while she had worked day and night. 

She had sacrificed her sleep to iron out details of the event, drawing up the proposal, liaising with the organisers and calculating the logistics of the event. Then, just as the boss had commended how detailed the proposal was, Brian had swooped in and thanked the boss for recognising his efforts. She had just smiled tightly. 

Twilight clung to the street like smoke. Streetlamps flickered to life with an electric sigh. Mr Drell, her elderly neighbour’s raspy voice carrying across the fence. He said something about vermin. Something about women not knowing their place.

Myra kept walking. Jaw clenched, eyes forward. The world narrowed to the door ahead, the key in her pocket, the promise of solitude. Then came the wet thud — a raw egg exploded against her window, its yolk bleeding down the glass.

She stopped. Didn’t turn. Her pulse ticked like a time bomb.

She slammed the door behind her.

March 13th

Dear Diary,

I had the worst day yesterday, and I barely got any sleep — it was absolutely horrible. I woke up to blaring sirens, and saw red and blue lights flash through the sheer curtains. The police? I was too tired to deal with anything though, so I just went back to bed.

When I woke up in the morning, some policeman knocked on the door and told me that Mr Drell was found dead in his living room. He asked me a couple of questions, but that’s it. I wonder what happened to that old coot? He was absolutely normal yesterday, as rude and cruel as ever… He actually went after my dog with a hot poker!!!! I don’t want to be that person but he kind of had it coming… 

March 20th

Myra awoke to the sound of nothing, the silence so thick it pressed against her eardrums. The sky still shone glaucous through the curtains. She glanced at her clock – 2.31am. 

The fan spun lazily overhead, the usual mechanical whirring of the machine somehow silenced by the night sky. She didn’t recall turning it on. The room was cold, much too cold. An errant breeze fluttered through the gap between the curtains, sending the sheer white fabric into a fluttering dance.

It moved like it was alive, too fluid, too deliberate, brushing the walls in slow, soundless arcs. She watched, transfixed, as the moonlight caught on the folds like silver, casting pale reflections across the ceiling. The shadows stretched longer than they should have. 

That’s strange, she mused. The windows were closed. She’d made sure of it before she went to bed. 

A shiver crept up her spine. She tried to pull the blanket tighter around her shoulders, but her limbs would not move. Her chest felt heavy, as if something heavy and hard pressed over her heart. A soft creak cleaved the silence, and Myra’s eyes drifted to the doorway.

Nothing. It was still shut tight.

As if on cue, the gentle breeze stopped. The curtain fell still.

The fan, too, had ceased its slow rotation — not gradually, with the fading grace of lost power, but abruptly, as though caught in the act.

The silence roared.

March 23th

Dear Diary,

I’ve gotten sleep paralysis three times this week, and there’s something wrong with the house. I admit I’ve been a bit jumpy since the day that I woke up at 2.31, but eerie things keep happening. I saw something in the mirror while I was brushing my teeth, but when I turned around, nothing. Maybe I imagined it. I’m tired.

March 24th

Dear Diary,

I was checking my notes app the other day and there was this creepy poem on an Untitled Note. Some sort of children’s song, I suppose. Here it is:

One blink, two blink,

Three times you see —

The you in the mirror

Isn’t really thee.

It’s a little lame and I wouldn’t put it past Brian to pull this sort of stupid prank. Speaking of that idiot, I actually tried reporting him to HR. He's been mocking me, telling people that I’m talking to myself and that I’m a “total schizo”. During lunch break, I even heard him call me some sort of charity hire. I’ve had enough of this childish bullying. What did I even do to him anyway??????????

March 27th

She couldn’t sleep. 

Instead, she watched the shadows pace behind the door frame. The walls undulated like seas. Her skin prickled with the certainty of being watched.

Her gaze fell on the small, ornate mirror at the corner of her room, a relic from her childhood home. 

She blinked, and suddenly she was nine years old again. 

In her linen pyjamas, she’d obediently rolled up her sleeves, lifting her arms to expose them to her father. It was always easier when she didn’t cry. Easier to stare into the mirror above the dresser — the one with the little blue flowers painted around the rim — and count the petals until it was over. Seven on the top, five on each side. Seventeen in total. That was a number she learned fast.

Sometimes, she imagined the reflection wasn’t her. Just a girl who looked like her — one who didn’t flinch, didn’t clench her fists so tightly the nails bit into the skin.

Silence had been safety. She learned quickly that speaking only made things worse — made the air sharper, the footsteps heavier, the apologies rarer. So she swallowed her words like medicine. 

Now, as an adult, that same hush followed her like a shadow. At work, at home, even in her dreams. She let people talk over her, take what she built, twist her thoughts into fiction. And still, she said nothing.

The mirror in the corner flickered.

Myra blinked. Her arms were bare now — no sleeves, no red-lined rattan cane marks — but the weight of memory remained, cool and quiet as the night air.

Her reflection stared back, unmoving. Watching.

March 30th

When dawn broke and the Sun painted the sky with light once more, she found that her phone lay face up on the nightstand. Cracks bloomed across the screen. Shards of glass littered the carpet, the jagged pieces piercing her feet as she stood up. As she picked up her phone, she realised that a new video had been saved on her camera roll. 

The video was only six minutes long.

Her heart beat faster as she tapped the play button, and the sound of static filled the room. The first three minutes were black – just black. But then, as though someone had dragged the camera across the floor, the image began to shift.

Faint, ghostly figures appeared in the frame, their edges blurry, their bodies indistinct. The air felt wrong, thick with the sense of something waiting. And then—there. At the edge of the frame, a blurry flash of teeth. 

A smile.

The grin was distorted somehow, too wide, too bright. It stretched unnaturally across the void on the screen.

Myra froze, her fingers trembling over the screen as she watched the thing, whatever it was, drift closer to the camera. Its edges flickered.

It was at that moment she realized it wasn’t just there—it was staring at her.

Her phone buzzed in her hand. Myra’s breath hitched in her throat. Without thinking, she jumped to her feet, dropping the phone onto the bed, but not before she saw the time. 2:31 a.m. The exact same time as the time she woke up from a few nights ago.

The smile.

She rushed to the window, heart pounding, and looked out. Nothing. Just the usual silence of the neighborhood, empty streets bathed in the soft glow of the sun.

But something tugged at the back of her mind, pulling her attention back to the mirror in the corner. Her reflection was still staring back, eyes wide, unnervingly alert. She blinked. And then, it did the same.

Her breath caught in her chest. Something was wrong. She wasn’t sure when it started, but the feeling of being watched had intensified, crawling under her skin like a thousand invisible spiders.

"Not real," she whispered to herself. "It’s just stress."

But the smile on the screen, the way it was watching her, it felt real. Too real.

She turned away from the mirror and grabbed the journal from her desk. Flicking to the next blank page, she wrote quickly.

March 30th

Dear Diary,

The thing in the mirror moved tonight.

It moved.

But she didn't stop there. She remembered the poem, the one that had somehow wormed its way into her mind. The eerie rhythm of it, the words like a chant that echoed against the walls.

Something’s watching me.

What is it?

What does it want?

The image in the mirror flickered again in the corner of her eye. She spun around to face it, but nothing.  Except for the flickering light from the corner of the room, the low hum of the fan suddenly starting again, as if nothing had ever happened.

The feeling of being watched remained.

Her own reflection stared back at her, smiling.

April 1st

Diary,

Woke up standing in the kitchen today. Was gripping a pair of kitchen scissors in my hand, it was so tight the whites of my knuckles showed. 

There was some viscous red liquid on the side, dripping down my hands, but it wasn’t blood. It was fruit jam. 

I tasted it to check. 

My nails were also packed with dirt, but I don’t remember doing any gardening yesterday??

The walls whisper things when I close my eyes, it’s constantly pounding on the inside of my head. I need to get it out. The voices are getting louder.

Diary, I’m terrified of mirrors now. 

AUDIO TRANSCRIPT

DATE: APRIL 2ND

DETECTIVE: Ms. Myra, I need to ask you again. Tell me about your coworker, Brian. The one you've mentioned in previous interviews. He—well, he was found dead in his car yesterday. His trachea was punctured by some sort of sharp object. Any idea what happened? You two had any recent interactions?”

MYRA: Brian? No. No, I haven’t seen him in days, Detective."

(She shifts in her seat, staring down at her hands.)

"Really, I haven’t. Not since the office... you know, the project."

(The words catch in her throat, and her eyes flicker toward the door.)

"Not since... I don’t know."

DETECTIVE: "Alright. Well, that's what I wanted to confirm. Anything else you can tell me about him? Any... odd behavior, any reason you think why he would get hurt like that?"

MYRA (hesitant):"No. Just... he was... the same as always. He was... rude, loud, obnoxious. But nothing that... nothing that would explain it."(She looks up suddenly, eyes wide.)"Do you know who did it to him? Will they be caught?"(Her voice hitches, a tremor lacing it.)

DETECTIVE: "We’re looking into that. We just need you to keep thinking. Did he say anything unusual to you recently? Anything that seemed out of character?"

MYRA (voice dropping to a whisper): "No. Nothing. Like I said, I haven’t seen him...No, yes I haven’t really seen him.”

April 5th

Words were scrawled across the diary in a handwriting that wasn't hers. Dark, jagged script was carved into the white pages, as if something had dragged the pen across it. 

They’re both gone. You’re welcome.

Myra screamed. 

POLICE INCIDENT REPORT 

Date: April 6th

Time: 03:47 A.M.

Location: 18 Maple Street, Apt. 3C

Call Type: Disturbance / Possible mental episodeDescription: Neighbours reported screaming and breaking sounds from inside the residence.Action Taken: Entry made by officers. Subject (Myra Lewis, F, 32) found sitting in front of a wall mirror, non-responsive, murmuring continuously. Mirror cracked in multiple places. Minor lacerations on subject’s hands. Dried blood noted under fingernails.

Audio Transcript — INTERROGATION ROOM 1A

Date: April 8th

DETECTIVE: Ms. Lewis. You know why you’re here, right?

(Silence. Only the faint tap of fingernails on metal.)

DETECTIVE: Your neighbour, Mr. Drell. And your coworker, Brian. Your DNA was found at both scenes. You want to tell me how that happened?

(A soft laugh, almost inaudible. Then a whisper.)

MYRA: It wasn’t me. It’s the mirror. 

DETECTIVE: The mirror. You said that before. You want to tell me what you mean by that?

(Myra looks up for the first time. Eyes bloodshot. Voice trembling but calm.)

MYRA: It watches when I sleep. It moves when I don’t. Sometimes it walks when I’m dreaming. Sometimes I wake up, and it’s already standing.

(Pause. A low hum fills the air — possibly recording feedback.)

DETECTIVE: Ms. Lewis, we found your fingerprints on Brian’s car door. Your blood on Mr. Drell’s floorboards. You expect me to believe a mirror did that?

MYRA: Not a mirror. The reflection in the mirror.

(Detective sighs. Papers shuffle. A pen clicks twice.)

DETECTIVE: Okay. Let’s start simple. When did you first notice something… wrong?

(No response. Then, faintly—)

MYRA: It started smiling before I did.

(Silence. The light flickers once overhead. The detective’s chair creaks.)

DETECTIVE: You think it wanted you to hurt them?

MYRA: No. I think it already did.

(Hall leans forward. Myra’s eyes track something just past his shoulder.)

DETECTIVE: Ms. Lewis? Look at me. There’s no one there.

MYRA: I think it likes you.

(Hall stiffens. A faint scratching sound comes from the mirrored wall.)

DETECTIVE: That’s enough for today.

(Chair legs screech. The recording continues for another ten seconds — Myra whispering softly to herself.)

MYRA (humming): One blink, two blink, three times you see—

(Recording ends abruptly.)

DETECTIVE’S NOTES — PRIVATE MEMO

Time: 09:52 A.M.

Myra still unresponsive. Keeps muttering about mirrors and reflections. Psych evaluation pending. Forensics team confirms her DNA on both victims — consistent with touch transfer, possibly defensive wounds. No sign of a weapon. Both victims suffered massive trauma. Subject remains in holding for observation.

April 9th

The station had emptied out. Detective Hall sat alone, the hum of fluorescent lights filling the quiet.

He rubbed his eyes and stared at the glass separating the interrogation room from the observation bay — that smooth, silvered pane, flawless under the harsh white glow.

Inside, Myra sat perfectly still in the corner of the room, rocking absently. 

She hadn’t moved in hours, her gaze transfixed on the mirrored glass.

“Damn it,” Hall murmured, glancing at the clock. 12.03am. He gathered his notes and stood. Just one more look before he left for the night.

He leaned closer to the CCTV monitoring screen, eyes narrowing. For a moment, he thought he saw her lips move, but the audio feed stayed dead silent.

Then he noticed it. 

Her reflection.

It was so quick he almost missed it, but for a split second, when Myra tilted her head, her reflection lagged. 

Half a second. Maybe less.

Hall froze.

She blinked. The reflection didn’t.

He leaned forward, hand pressing against the cool glass. The lights above flickered once, buzzing louder, and the air thickened, heavy with that same low static hum he’d heard on the tape.

“Myra?” he said quietly, though the mic wasn’t on.

Her head turned toward him; not the woman in the chair, but the one in the glass. It smiled.

Slowly. Too wide.

Hall stumbled back, knocking into the desk. Papers scattered across the floor. When he looked again, the reflection was normal. He exhaled shakily, rubbed his temples, and grabbed his coat.

“Get some sleep,” he muttered to himself, voice low. “You’re seeing things.”

As he turned to leave, the mirror flickered once more.

In the glass, his reflection didn’t move.

It stayed where it was, smiling faintly, eyes black and bottomless.

And then—

It blinked.