The Midnight Reflection

I never believed in ghosts, not really. They were just stories told to scare children, or excuses for creaky floors and drafty windows. But what happened that night in my own home changed everything. My name is Evelyn, and this is one of the earliest encounters I had with something not of this world.

I was living in a small apartment on the third floor of an old building, the kind with radiators that clank and walls that seem to breathe. My computer sat on a desk against the wall, and to the right of the monitor hung a round, tarnished mirror. I often used it to check my appearance before going out, but that night, at 3:02 AM, it served a different purpose.

I was deep in a late-night gaming session, my eyes glued to the screen, when I felt a pressure on the top of my head, like someone resting a hand there. I froze, my heart starting to pound. Slowly, I lifted my gaze from the monitor and saw, in the mirror, not my own reflection, but a man. He had jet-black hair that fell just past his chin, skin pale as moonlight, and eyes that burned a deep crimson. He was staring right at me, a slight smile playing on his lips.

I gasped and whipped my head around, expecting to see him standing behind my chair. But the room was empty. I looked left, right, behind me again, but there was nothing. I turned back to the mirror, and he was still there, now standing directly behind me in the reflection, his smile wider. As I watched, he raised a hand and slowly brought a finger to his lips, as if to shush me. Then, he vanished.

My instincts kicked in. I needed to do something normal, something to ground me. I stood up, walked to the kitchenette, and grabbed a bag of popcorn from the cupboard. I placed it in the microwave, my hands trembling, and pressed the button. The hum of the machine was a comforting distraction. But as the microwave door closed with a click, I saw a reflection in its dark glass: the man was behind me again, his face close to mine, a grin stretching from ear to ear. I spun around, but the air where he stood was empty.

I tried to shrug it off, telling myself it was a trick of the light, a lack of sleep. But the popcorn forgotten, I sat back down at the computer, my eyes glued to the mirror, waiting for him to appear again. He didn’t. But I felt him. I felt his presence like a cold draft in the room, like a weight pressing on my shoulders.

Days passed, and I tried to push the incident aside. But the mirror… I couldn’t stop looking at it. Every time I passed, I expected to see his face. At night, I’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening for footsteps, for breathing, for anything. Then, one night, I decided to remove the mirror. I covered it with a cloth, but the feeling didn’t go away.

A week later, I woke to a whisper in my ear. It was barely audible, like a breath, but it said my name. ‘Evelyn.’ I bolted upright, my heart racing. The room was dark, but I could see the outline of the covered mirror against the wall. It seemed to be pulsing, as if alive. I got up, pulled the cloth away, and there he was. Not in the reflection, but actually in the room, standing behind me, tall and grinning.

I screamed, but no sound came out. He stepped closer, and I felt his cold hand on my shoulder. His voice was a low rumble in my ear, ‘I’ve been waiting.’ I woke up the next morning in my bed, the mirror uncovered, and the man gone. But the feeling that he was still there, lurking just out of sight, never left me. I moved out of that apartment a month later, leaving the mirror behind. But I know, wherever I go, he might find me again. Because sometimes, the reflection is not what it seems.