The Kitchen Reflection

I was the first one to see it, three weeks before the harvest moon. It was late October, and the cold had already begun to gnaw at the edges of our small Nebraskan town. I was walking up the gravel drive to the old farmhouse, rain plastering my hair to my forehead, when I glanced through the kitchen window. There, leaning against the counter, was a man who could only be my roommate, Marcus. Same broad shoulders, same shock of red hair, same way of slouching with one hip cocked. But something was wrong. He was wearing a faded band t-shirt, the kind Marcus only wore to bed, and he was staring at the bathroom door, not moving, not blinking. I knew Marcus was inside—I could hear his muffled voice through the walls, talking to his brother, Evan. I knew Evan was in the living room, sprawled on the couch, because I’d just seen him through the screen door. But the figure in the kitchen was a perfect mirror of Marcus, and it terrified me.

I didn’t go in through the kitchen. I took the back stairs, two at a time, my heart hammering. I burst into the hallway and found Marcus in his room, wearing a crisp button-down and slacks, ready for the dinner party he was about to attend. Evan was in the living room, still in his work clothes. I asked them if anyone had been in the kitchen. They looked at each other, then at me, and said no. They tried to laugh it off, said I’d imagined it, but I saw the way Marcus’s hands trembled as he downed his coffee. I insisted, told them what I saw, described the t-shirt, the stillness. Their faces went pale. Evan whispered that he’d felt a draft from the basement all day. That night, we didn’t sleep.

Last night, I was alone in the house. Marcus and Evan had gone to the city for a wedding, leaving me to feed the animals. I was in the living room, reading by the lamplight, when I heard a creak from the kitchen. I walked in, and there it was again. Only this time, it wasn’t Marcus. It was me. My own face, my own lanky frame, wearing the same ripped jeans and flannel I had on. It was leaning over the counter, its back to me, but I could see its reflection in the window. It was me, but not me. Its jaw moved as if it were chewing, but there was no sound. I stepped closer, and it turned its head—not fully, just enough to show a sliver of a smile. Then it dissolved, like fog dissipating.

A cold draft swept through the room, and the basement door creaked open. I’d never been afraid of that door before, but now I knew. The thing wasn’t just in the kitchen. It had always been in the house, hiding in the spaces between floorboards, in the creaks of the stairs. It wore our faces like masks, and it was waiting. I grabbed my coat and ran out into the night, not looking back. But as I stumbled down the gravel drive, I saw the lights in the house flicker, and in every window, a silhouette stood—one in the kitchen, one in Marcus’s room, one in the living room. They were all faceless, but they all turned to watch me leave. And in the morning, when I returned, they were still there, waiting for their moment to step through the looking glass.