The Man in the Glass

It was late, past midnight, and I was still glued to my laptop, reading horror stories online. I knew I should’ve gone to bed, but I kept scrolling, lost in the eerie tales. The room was silent except for the faint hum of the ceiling fan.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something move. Just a flicker, barely there. I told myself it was just my imagination. But then, it happened again. A shadow shifting. My heart pounded.

I turned my head slowly, my gaze landing on the glass cabinet next to the TV. My stomach dropped.

There was a man inside.

He wasn’t standing outside the cabinet. No, he was inside the glass, like a reflection that didn’t belong. He was tall, dressed in an old coat, something thick and heavy like you’d wear in winter. But it was the middle of summer. His face was pale, eyes dark and hollow.

I froze. My body refused to move.

Then, he moved.

It was a small shift—his hand reached up, adjusting his scarf, like he was fixing himself in the glass. My breath caught in my throat. I blinked hard, hoping he would disappear.

But he didn’t.

I slammed my laptop shut and bolted out of the room, straight to my little brother’s bed. I crawled in beside him, heart racing, too afraid to breathe.

Maybe I was seeing things. Maybe I had just read too many ghost stories.

But I never looked at that cabinet the same way again. And on some nights, when the lights are low, I swear I can still see him.

Watching.

Waiting.

And I pray he never steps out.