The Hollow Reflection

The house on Maple Street had been our home for three years, but the strangeness began in the first month. I was twelve, the same age as my sister, but our routines rarely overlapped. That morning, as I brushed my teeth in the upstairs bathroom, I saw a girl in the mirror. She looked just like my sister, but her hair was darker, and her eyes were wide with an expression I couldn’t place. I spun around, but the room was empty. I sat on the cold tile floor for five minutes, convincing myself it was a trick of the light.

After that, I saw her more often—always in mirrors, always in the upstairs bathroom. She would stand behind my reflection, her mouth moving as if she were trying to tell me something, but no sound ever came. I grew accustomed to her, even began to whisper back when I was alone. My sister never saw her, and I never told anyone.

The real terror came one Sunday afternoon. I was in the basement, watching an old movie on the TV. The remote died, so I knelt down to switch it off manually. As I bent over, I caught a glimpse in the darkened screen—a tall figure looming behind me, so dark it seemed to swallow the light. I whipped around, but there was nothing. The air was cold, and I felt a presence pressing against my back. I ran up the stairs, not daring to look behind, and burst out the front door into the blinding sunlight.

I crossed the street to where a new family had just moved in. A boy my age was sitting on the porch. His name was Sam. We started playing a game of tag, and for a while, I forgot the suffocating feeling in my house. But as the sun began to set, Sam froze mid-step, staring at a window on the second floor of my house.

‘Who’s that?’ he whispered, pointing.

I followed his gaze. In the window, the girl from the mirror was standing, her face pressed against the glass, her lips moving more frantically than ever. Then, beside her, the tall dark figure appeared, enveloping her like a cloak.

Sam grabbed my arm. ‘We need to get out of here.’

We ran to his house, but I couldn’t shake the image. That night, I lay in bed, staring at my ceiling, when I heard a knock on my door. I opened it to find my sister asleep in her room. The knock came again—from inside my closet. I didn’t open it.

For weeks, I avoided the upstairs bathroom, using the one on the main floor. The girl seemed to disappear from the mirrors, and I almost convinced myself it was over. But one evening, as I was washing my hands in the kitchen sink, I saw her reflection in the window. She was standing right behind me, and in the glass, the tall figure was beside her, his hand on her shoulder.

I turned slowly. The kitchen was empty. But smoke was curling from the back of the house. I ran to the window—the attic was on fire. The flames licked the glass, and in the heart of the blaze, I could see the girl and the figure, their forms dancing in the heat.

I called the fire department, but by the time they arrived, the attic was charred. The investigators found nothing that could have started the fire. They declared it electrical.

That night, I packed a bag and slept at Sam’s house. I never returned to Maple Street. But even at Sam’s, I find myself checking mirrors, expecting to see the girl with her silent plea and the tall thing that follows her. Sometimes, when I look too long, I see my own reflection start to darken, and I wonder if they’ve found a new home.