The Kitchen Mirror

I never trusted the kitchen after dark. It wasn’t the dark itself, but the way the window above the sink turned into a black mirror, reflecting the room behind me. I was twelve, maybe, with a sleep schedule that belonged to a vampire. My mother had given up on enforcing bedtime, and I roamed the house like a ghost, hunting for snacks and water.

One night, around two in the morning, thirst dragged me from my bed. The floorboards creaked in familiar places, a language I had learned to avoid. The kitchen was a rectangle of gloom, save for the pale light from the streetlamp filtering through the window. I stood at the counter, pouring a glass of water, when I felt it—a presence. Not a thought, but a weight behind me, a disturbance in the air.

I didn’t turn immediately. I had learned that sometimes, turning too fast made it disappear. Instead, I watched the window. The reflection was mostly dark, but in the corner of my eye, I caught a shape. A person, sitting at the kitchen table. They had dark, curly hair, like my brother’s, but my brother was away at college. Still, I let myself believe it was him, that he had come home unexpectedly. I even started to smile.

‘Hey, when did you get back?’ I said, turning around.

The chair was empty. The table was bare. The air was cold. I stood there, glass in hand, feeling foolish. But the feeling didn’t leave. It grew, like a stain soaking into the walls.

The next night, I forced myself to stay in my room, but the thirst won again. I crept downstairs, convinced I was being stupid. The kitchen was the same, but this time, I kept my eyes on the window. The reflection was crisp, and I saw myself, a thin girl in a nightgown. And behind me, the chair at the table was occupied. The figure had the same curly hair, but it was taller, broader. Not my brother.

I didn’t turn. I just stood there, trembling, watching the reflection. The figure sat perfectly still, as if waiting. I slowly raised my water glass, and the figure mirrored the motion, as if raising a glass of its own. But its face was obscured, a shadow in the reflection.

I walked backward out of the kitchen, never taking my eyes off the window. When I reached the hallway, I ran. I didn’t sleep that night, or the next. I started taking a flashlight with me everywhere, but the darkness in the kitchen was deeper than any light.

A week later, I woke to a sound. A creak, like a chair shifting. I knew it came from the kitchen. I tiptoed to the top of the stairs and peered down. The light was on, and I could see the kitchen table. No one was there, but the chair was pulled out, as if someone had just left. On the table was a glass of water, still wet, with a single strand of curly hair coiled around the rim.

I never drank from that glass. I moved out years ago, but I still can’t look into reflective surfaces at night. Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of a dark figure in my peripherals, and I know it’s not my imagination. It’s the thing that waits in the kitchen, patient, always behind me, always watching me in the mirror.

I’m writing this down because I need to know if I’m alone in this. My nan used to say she could feel when something was wrong. I think I inherited her gift. And I think the thing in the kitchen knew it, too. It was waiting for me to finally see it clearly, to acknowledge it. And when I did, it started to follow me out.

Last night, I looked into the bathroom mirror to brush my teeth. The house was silent, the way I like it. But in the mirror, behind my shoulder, I saw a dark shape, indistinct, with what looked like curly hair. I froze, my hand on the toothbrush. The shape grew more solid, and I felt a cold breath on my neck. I didn’t turn. I just whispered, ‘I see you.’ And then, the lights flickered, and the shape was gone. But I could feel it smiling, somewhere close. It had been waiting for permission.