The Glass Reflection

The first time I saw her, I was six, sitting cross-legged on the laminate floor of our new living room in Alice Springs. My mother had designed the house herself, a sprawling single-story with floor-to-ceiling windows that let the desert light pour in like honey. My brother, Leo, who was eleven, was sprawled on the couch beside me, his head buried in a comic book. I was supposed to be practicing my handwriting, but I kept glancing at the sliding glass door that led to the patio, where the late afternoon sun cast long, distorted shadows across the tiles.

I saw her reflection in the glass, a pale girl about my age with dark hair hanging in her face. She stood just outside, her image warped by the glass, and I turned to look directly outside. There was no one. I felt a cold knot in my stomach, and I pulled at Leo’s sleeve. ‘Who’s that?’ I whispered, pointing. Leo looked up, squinted, and shrugged. ‘Just the tree, you idiot.’ He went back to his comic, and I tried to swallow the lump in my throat.

I thought it was a fluke, a trick of the light. But over the next few weeks, I saw her more and more often, always in reflections, always in my peripheral vision. In the mirrored surface of the toaster, in the polished chrome of the kitchen tap, in the dark of the TV screen when it was off. She was always there, a whisper of grey, a suggestion of a figure. I told my mother, but she said it was my imagination, that I was just creative. I started to believe her, until the day I saw her entire handprint press against the inside of my bedroom window, as if she were leaning against it, peering in. The print stayed for a few seconds, then vanished, and I screamed.

Leo, who had been passing by, came running in. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, and I pointed at the empty window. He looked at me with a strange expression, then pulled the curtain shut. ‘You’re seeing things,’ he said, but his voice was tight. I didn’t sleep that night, and from then on, I began keeping a journal, documenting every sighting. I described her to Leo in exhaustive detail: the way her hair moved as if under water, the tattered hem of her dress, the gaping blackness where her eyes should be. Leo stopped calling me crazy. Instead, he started sleeping with the lights on.

On my eleventh birthday, we had a small party with a few friends from school. My mother had hung balloons and a banner, and there was a chocolate cake with lit candles. I made a wish and blew them out, and as the smoke curled upwards, I noticed that the sliding glass door was slightly ajar. I hadn’t opened it. My friends’ laughter died when I stood up abruptly and walked over to close it. As I pressed my hand to the glass, I saw her reflection, and this time she was looking directly at me. Her dark hair parted, and I saw that her face was blank, smooth, like an egg, with no features at all. I let out a choked scream and fell backwards, and everyone rushed to see what had happened. But when they looked, they saw only the empty patio.

After that, I became obsessed. I searched the house from top to bottom, looking for any clue she might have left behind. I found an old photograph in the attic, tucked inside a book about local history. It was of a group of children, standing in front of our house, which had been built only ten years prior. In the background, fading against the structure, was the image of a girl, her face obscured. The caption read: ‘Class of 1920, Alice Springs Primary School.’ But our house was brand new, and no school had ever stood there.

I started to dig into the history of the land, and I discovered that the street we lived on had been built over an abandoned cemetery. I dug deeper, and found records of a young girl who had died in a fire in 1921, a fire that had consumed the original house on the property. Her name was Eudora. The records mentioned that she had been locked in a closet as punishment, and that she had never been found after the blaze.

That night, I woke to the smell of smoke. I sat up, and my bedroom was filled with a thick, grey fog. In the center of the room, Eudora stood, visible now in the dim light, her blank face tilted upwards. She reached out a hand, and it passed through the air, and I felt a sudden, icy cold wrap around my lungs. Then she spoke, her voice like the rustling of burnt paper: ‘You let them lock me away. You let me burn.’ I struggled to breathe, and I felt her fingers closing around my throat. ‘I have been waiting for a friend,’ she said. ‘Why did you take so long?’

I woke up the next morning on the floor, my room filled with the acrid smell of extinguished smoke. The house was cold, and there was a soot mark on the ceiling above my bed. Leo was shaking me, his face pale. ‘I heard you screaming,’ he said. I tried to speak, but my throat was raw. I looked at the window, and I saw her reflection, but this time, she was smiling, or at least her face was not as blank. It was a twisted, sorrowful thing, and I knew she would never leave me.

I told my parents that I wanted to move, but they thought I was still having nightmares, and they refused. So I decided to confront her, to end it. I went to the library and researched Eudora’s death, and I found that her bones had been discovered years later, buried under the house, in a shallow, unmarked grave. I went to the property line, where a twisted, old gum tree stood, and I began to dig. I dug for hours, until I hit something hard. I unearthed a small, rusted music box, the kind that plays a lullaby. I pried it open, and inside were the brittle remains of a girl’s hair and a tarnished silver locket. I opened the locket, and inside was a tiny photograph of a young girl with dark hair, smiling.

I took the locket to the house and placed it on the mantelpiece. That night, I waited. She appeared, just as she always had, but this time, she did not approach me. She stood in the corner of the room, her form flickering, and she seemed to be watching the locket. ‘I remember when I wore that,’ she said. ‘Mother gave it to me for my birthday.’ I spoke to her, softly, telling her I was sorry, that no one should have been locked away, that she was not forgotten. She tilted her head, and for a moment, I saw the faintest outline of features on her face, the ghost of eyes, a nose, a mouth. ‘Do you mean it?’ she asked. I said, ‘Yes.’ She stepped forward, and for the first time, she touched me. Her hand was cold, but not hurting, and she placed something in my palm. It was the locket. ‘Then take me with you,’ she said. ‘Show me that I am not alone.’

I think I’m finally beginning to understand. I don’t fear her anymore. I have accepted her as a part of my life. Now, at eighteen, I still live in Alice Springs, in that very house, which I inherited from my parents. I have a job at a local museum, and sometimes, with the right light, I catch a glimpse of her in the reflection of the glass display cases. I smile, and I swear I see her smile back. I have started a support group, for people who have similar experiences, and sometimes they come to my house, and they tell me they see her too. She is not a monster; she is a memory, a friend, a soul who just wanted someone to know she existed. And now, many people know. She no longer haunts the house; she haunts my dreams, but in a gentle way, like a guardian spirit. I see her, and I am no longer afraid.

The other day, a new family moved in next door. A little girl, about six, was standing in the driveway, staring at our house with wide eyes. I walked over to greet her, and she pointed at my window, which, just for a second, reflected the image of a dark-haired girl. ‘Who’s that?’ she asked. I smiled, and I said, ‘That’s just Eudora. She’s a friend of mine. She might be in need of a new friend, too.’ The little girl’s eyes widened, and I knew that she, too, would see her, and that Eudora would never truly be alone again. And as I turned to go inside, I caught a flicker in the glass of the front door, and I knew I was not alone either.

I think back to that first time, when I was two, sitting next to my sister in front of the TV. She told me later that I had asked, ‘Who is that girl in the reflection?’ and that she had seen her too. We never spoke of it again, but now I know. She was always there, waiting, wanting to be seen. And in a way, by finally seeing her, I have freed us both. The glass is no longer a barrier but a bridge, and I have crossed it willingly.

I am not loopy. I am not crazy. I am simply someone who has learned to see the world differently. And in that world, there is a girl named Eudora, and she is my secret, my shadow, my friend. The house on Darling Street may have a history, but it is my history now, and I have accepted it. The portrait on the mantelpiece, which I painted from memory, shows a girl with dark hair and a gentle smile. It hangs in the hallway, and visitors often comment on it. I tell them she was a relative, a girl who lived long ago, and they nod, satisfied. If only they knew.

Perhaps, one day, I will write all of this down, my story, her story, and the truth about the girl in the glass. But for now, I am content in this quiet life, sharing my days with a ghost, and knowing that I have given her the only gift that matters: remembrance. And as I write this, I catch a glimpse of her again, in the mirror above my desk, and she is dressed in a clean white dress, and her face is finally hers, and she is smiling. ‘Thank you,’ she whispers, and I nod, and I say, ‘You’re welcome, Eudora. You’re always welcome.’