The Glassblower’s Curse

It was the summer of 1974, and I was eleven, living in a small, wood-framed house on the edge of a town that had once been a mining settlement. My bedroom was at the end of a narrow hallway, and I had a tall, ornate mirror that had belonged to my grandmother. It was the kind of mirror that seemed to hold its own light, and I often spent hours in front of it, practicing my braids.

One afternoon, the air was thick with the smell of pine and the distant hum of a sawmill. I was brushing my long, dark hair, watching my reflection, when I heard a low hiss, like steam escaping a pipe. The sound came from my bed, which was across the room. I turned, but there was nothing. Then I felt a cold, damp touch on the left side of my head, as if a wet cloth had been pressed against my scalp. I spun back to the mirror, and there, sliding down the glass, was a thick, greyish substance, like phlegm, but with a faint iridescent sheen. I screamed, and my father burst in, followed by my mother. They saw the thing on the mirror, and my father, a practical man, wiped it off with a rag. He smelled it and said it had a metallic tang, like blood and rust, but he couldn’t identify it. They checked the room, under the bed, in the closet, but found nothing. They told me it must have been some kind of insect or a leak from the ceiling, but the ceiling was dry.

That was the first of many odd occurrences. A week later, I was reading in the living room, when I saw a woman with red hair, a vivid shade like autumn leaves, walk past the open doorway. She wore a long, white dress that seemed to flow even though there was no breeze. I called out, and my mother came, but she found no one. The house had a back door, but it was locked, and the windows were shut. My mother searched the basement and the yard, but there was no trace. She said I must have seen a shadow or a trick of the light.

Another time, I was in the kitchen, and I heard my name being called from the basement. It sounded like my mother’s voice, but it was too deep. I went to the top of the stairs and called down, but no one answered. My father was at work, and my mother was in the garden. I felt a cold draft, and the basement door, which was always left ajar, swung shut by itself. My heart pounded as I forced it open, and I saw nothing but the usual clutter. But when I turned to go back up, I saw a small, hand-shaped print on the wall, as if someone had touched it with a wet palm. It was too small for an adult, too large for a child, and it evaporated as I watched.

My parents tried to explain these things away, but I could see the fear in their eyes. They stopped sleeping as well, and sometimes I’d hear them whispering in the living room, arguing about whether we should move. But they couldn’t afford to, not easily, and so we stayed.

The house had a history, I learned. It had been built by a man named Elias Thorne, a glassblower who had come to the town to work in the glass factory that had since closed. He was a recluse, and he had a daughter, or so the local legend went. The story was that he had made a mirror that trapped a piece of his daughter’s soul, because he was too afraid of losing her to a fever that was going around. But the glass broke, and the daughter died, and the mirror was supposed to be cursed. Our mirror, the one in my room, was said to be that very mirror, passed down through families until it came to us.

I didn’t believe the legend at first, but after the incidents, I couldn’t help but research. I went to the library and found a local history book that mentioned Elias Thorne. There was a faded photograph of him, a thin man with intense eyes, holding a mirror similar to ours. The book said that after his daughter’s death, he had gone mad and turned to the dark arts, hoping to bring her back. He had been found dead in his workshop, with the mirror shattered around him, but the pieces were said to be impossible to destroy.

My parents didn’t like me reading such things, and they took the book away. But the incidents continued. One night, I woke up to see a figure standing at the foot of my bed. It was the woman with red hair, but now her skin was pale and translucent, and her eyes were black, like voids. She pointed at the mirror, and I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, even though I was alone. I screamed, and she vanished. My parents came, but they couldn’t see anything, and they were growing weary of my ‘nightmares.’

In desperation, I decided to confront the mirror. I took a candle, as the electricity had a habit of flickering in that room, and I stood before it, looking at my own frightened reflection. I spoke, my voice trembling, ‘What do you want from me?’ The mirror seemed to pulse, and the surface rippled like water. Then I heard a voice, soft and sad, like a child’s whisper, ‘I’m trapped. Let me out.’

The mirror began to frost over, and through the frost, I saw an image: a young girl, about my age, with red hair, sitting in a room that looked like a jail cell, but the bars were made of glass. She was crying. I felt an overwhelming urge to break the mirror, to free her. I picked up a heavy book from my dresser, but before I could smash it, my father burst in, having heard me talking. He grabbed my arm and wrestled the book away, demanding to know what I was doing. I tried to explain, but he wouldn’t listen. He thought I was having a breakdown. Later that night, I heard my mother crying.

I knew I had to do something. The next day, while my parents were at work, I took a hammer and went to my room. I raised it to strike the mirror, but I couldn’t. Something held me back. I looked at my reflection, and it seemed older, twisted. The reflection smiled, but I wasn’t smiling. Then the mirror spoke again, but this time the voice was cruel, ‘You’ll never break me. I’ll be your fate.’ I dropped the hammer and ran out of the house, down the street, until I couldn’t run anymore.

I didn’t go back for hours. When I did, I found the front door ajar, and my parents’ car in the drive. They had come home early. I found them in the living room, sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the wall. They didn’t respond when I called their names. On the wall, written in what looked like soot, was the word ‘LEAVE.’ I tried to shake them, but they were like statues. I called the police, and they came, but they couldn’t explain what had happened. My parents were taken to a hospital, and I was sent to live with my aunt.

The house was sold, and my parents eventually recovered, but they never spoke of what happened. I was told to never return, and I haven’t. But sometimes, at night, I see the reflection of a red-haired woman in my bathroom mirror, or any reflective surface, and I hear that voice, mocking, ‘You can’t escape me.’ I’ve moved many times, but I always feel a cold draft, and I know it’s still there, waiting.

This is my story, and I tell it to you because you asked, and because I think you might believe me. But if you ever see a mirror that seems too old, too ornate, with a silver backing that looks like liquid, run. Run and never look back, because some mirrors don’t just reflect what’s in front of them. They hold onto what was once there, and they want to keep you forever.