The Glass Reflection

Ever since I was a child, my grandmother used to tell me about a presence that lingered in our old farmhouse. She called it ‘The Watcher by the Window,’ claiming it was a young girl who had died on the property long before our time. I always dismissed it as an old woman’s tale, a way to entertain me and my brother on stormy nights. But I was wrong.

One summer, when I was sixteen and my parents were away on a business trip, my brother was at a week-long camp. I had the house to myself, and I planned to spend it catching up on my favorite horror series. The farmhouse had a large living room with a picture window that overlooked the desolate fields. I’d position myself on the couch, the TV’s glow reflecting off the glass, giving me a perfect view of the backyard.

On the third day, as I was flipping through channels, the screen flickered to static. Annoyed, I pointed the remote to change it, but the static persisted. Then, through the distortion, I saw her—a girl in a white dress, sprinting across the yard, her reflection in the window for just a split second before she vanished behind the old oak tree. My heart pounded. I told myself it was just my imagination, a trick of the light. But then the temperature in the room dropped, and I felt a cold breath on the back of my neck.

I spun around, but there was nothing. I laughed nervously, trying to shake it off. But then the TV changed channels on its own, cycling through static until it landed on a station that showed a live feed of a security camera—our security camera. The feed showed the front porch, and there she was, standing right at the door, her face obscured by the shadow of the porch. I could see her hand reaching for the doorknob.

I froze, not knowing what to do. The girl on screen turned her head slowly, as if she knew I was watching, and then she waved. I felt a wave of nausea. This wasn’t a ghost story; this was something else. I ran to the door and locked it, then drew the curtains. When I returned to the couch, the TV was off. But I could see the reflection of the room behind me in the dark screen, and there she was, standing in the doorway, a faint smile on her lips.

I closed my eyes, counting to ten, telling myself it was just a nightmare. When I opened them, she was gone. But on the far wall, there was a new stain, shaped like a handprint, small and delicate, as if a child had pressed her palm against the wallpaper. I spent the rest of the day in my room, refusing to look at any reflective surface.

That night, I heard soft footsteps in the hallway, and the faint sound of a lullaby, a tune my grandmother used to hum. I got up and peeked through the crack in my door. There she was, walking slowly towards my room, her bare feet making no sound on the wooden floor. She stopped right outside my door and knocked—three soft knocks. I held my breath. Then she whispered, ‘Open up. I just want to play.’

I didn’t move. After a long silence, I heard her footsteps retreating. But when I looked down at the floor, there was a drawing, scrawled in what looked like dry blood: a stick figure of a girl, and next to it, a stick figure of me, with a line connecting us. The next morning, I found the windows open, and the drawing now showed the girl standing over my body.

I called my grandmother, frantic, and she told me the truth. The Watcher wasn’t just a legend; it was a curse. The girl, named Elsie, had drowned in the well behind the house in 1890. She was a lonely child who craved companionship, and anyone who saw her reflection was marked as her playmate. The only way to break the curse was to give her something she lost—a doll, which she was buried with, but it had been stolen from her grave.

My grandmother told me where to find the doll: hidden in a small box under the floorboards of the attic. I found it, a porcelain thing with cracked cheeks and missing eyes. But as I held it, I felt a cold grip on my wrist. Elsie appeared before me, her face now clearly visible—pale, with hollow eyes. She smiled and said, ‘Thank you for bringing her back. Now we can play forever.’

I realized my mistake too late. The doll was cursed. As I tried to drop it, it took on a life of its own, its tiny arms wrapping around my own. Elsie laughed, a sound like dry leaves skittering, and then everything went black.

When I regained consciousness, I was in the well, the doll clutched to my chest, and Elsie’s voice echoed from above: ‘You’re mine now.’ I tried to climb out, but the walls were slick and impossibly high. I screamed for help, but no one came. I was trapped, and through the gap of the well’s opening, I could see the farmhouse, and in the window, my own reflection—except it wasn’t me. It was Elsie, wearing my body, waving goodbye.

I don’t know how long I’ve been down here. The water is cold, and the smell of earth is thick. I can hear footsteps above me, and sometimes, I see my reflection in the water—but it’s not mine. It’s a girl in a white dress, smiling. She’s waiting for me to join her. And I’m afraid that soon, I will.