The Glass Hummingbird

My mother has always been able to see things others can’t. Not like a sixth sense or a gift she flaunts; it’s more like a quiet burden she carries. She’s told me stories of her childhood, of a woman in a blue dress standing at the foot of her bed, of a dog that would trot through her grandmother’s kitchen long after it had died. I grew up listening to these tales, and they filled me with a strange mix of fear and fascination. I devoured books on the paranormal, on folklore, on the thin places between worlds. And I always suspected that maybe, just maybe, my curiosity might one day open a door.

That door creaked open a few months ago, in the middle of a heatwave. My father and brother had gone on a fishing trip to the coast, leaving my mother and me alone in our little house on the edge of the desert. The air was thick, even at midnight, and the only sound was the hum of the old air conditioner and the occasional yip of a coyote. I was in my room, scrolling through an old forum about spirit communication, my door half-shut, my lamp casting a weak glow. I’d been reading a thread about ‘mirror gazing’ – a technique to see the dead – and, half-jokingly, I’d left a small hand mirror on my desk, propped against a stack of books.

My mother was in the bathroom, taking a long soak to cool off. The door was ajar, and I could hear the water sloshing. That’s when I heard it: a soft, tinkling sound, like glass wind chimes, coming from the hallway. I paused, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. It came again, clearer this time, and it seemed to be getting closer. I stood up, my heart thumping, and peered into the dim hallway. At the far end, near the linen closet, something glinted. It was a small, iridescent object, hovering about three feet off the ground, fluttering like a bird. It made that chime-like noise as it moved. I thought it might be a hummingbird that had gotten in, but it was too slow, too deliberate, and it glowed with a soft, internal light.

I called out to my mother, my voice trembling. She came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a robe, her hair wet. She froze when she saw it. Her face went pale, and she whispered, ‘That’s not a bird.’ As we watched, the thing drifted towards the open door of my parents’ bedroom, and then it vanished inside, as if it had passed through the wall. My mother turned to me, her eyes wide. ‘What did you do?’ she asked. I told her about the mirror, about the forum. She shook her head. ‘We need to get rid of that mirror.’ But when we went into my room, the mirror was gone.

For the next week, we saw the hummingbird everywhere. It would appear in the kitchen in the morning, hovering over the stove. It would flit past the living room window at dusk. Once, I saw it perched on the edge of the bathroom sink, its wings moving slowly, its body flickering like a heat shimmer. It never approached us, but it was always there. My mother, usually the calm one, became jumpy. She started sleeping with the lights on. I felt a cold dread every time I saw it, but also a strange pull, like I wanted to get closer.

Then, one afternoon, my father and brother came home. They were sunburned and smelled of salt and fish. As they unloaded the car, I saw the hummingbird dart out of my parents’ room and hover in the living room, near the family photos. My father noticed it too. ‘What the hell is that?’ he said, squinting. Before I could answer, the bird flew straight at him. He ducked, and it passed through the space where his head had been, and then it was gone, as if it had never existed.

That night, my mother started shaking. She told me she had seen something in the bath that first night, something she hadn’t told me. She said a face had appeared in the water, a woman with silver eyes, and that the face had whispered a single word: ‘Stay.’ She thought she had imagined it, but now she wasn’t sure. We decided to do some research. We scoured the internet for any legend about a glowing hummingbird, but found nothing. Exhausted, we finally fell asleep.

I woke up in the middle of the night to a strange sensation – a feather-light touch on my cheek. I opened my eyes, and the hummingbird was hovering inches from my face. It was close enough that I could see its eyes – they were not a bird’s eyes, but something else, something ancient and knowing. And I heard a voice in my head, soft as a breeze: ‘You called me.’ I tried to move, but I was frozen. It said, ‘I’m glad you did. I’ve been waiting.’ And then it flew towards the mirror on my wall – a full-length mirror I’d forgotten about – and it dived into the glass, leaving a ripple that spread out and then stilled.

When I could move again, I ran to my mother’s room. She was sitting up in bed, her face ashen. ‘It’s in the mirrors now,’ she said. ‘Every mirror in the house.’ We checked. The bathroom mirror was clouded, as if with breath. The small mirror in the hall had turned black, like obsidian. And in my room, the hand mirror had reappeared, sitting on my desk, its surface shimmering.

My father, woken by our commotion, came in and saw us staring at the mirrors. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked. I tried to explain, but the words seemed to stick in my throat. Then, we all heard it – a faint chime, coming from every mirror at once. And in the glass, a shape began to form, a tall, indistinct figure with silver eyes. It spoke, and its voice was like the tinkling of a thousand tiny bells: ‘You will never be alone again.’

The next day, we tried to smash the mirrors. But every piece we broke, the glass reassembled itself. We tried to throw them away, but they would always reappear in the same spot. My father, who had always been skeptical, now believed. And he was terrified.

Now, weeks later, we live with it. The hummingbird appears less frequently, but the mirrors are always cold to the touch. Sometimes, at night, I see my reflection move a second after I do. And in the bathroom, when the steam rises, I sometimes see the woman with silver eyes standing behind my mother, her hands on my mother’s shoulders. My mother says it’s not evil, just lonely. She says it came to us because I opened a door, and now it’s our guest. But I’m not so sure. And sometimes, late at night, I hear a chime, and I remember what the voice said: ‘You will never be alone again.’ And I can’t help but wonder if that’s a promise, or a curse.