The Mirror in the Old High School

The day started like any other at Oakridge High, a sprawling maze of faded lockers and creaking floorboards. I was in the second-floor bathroom with my friend, Mara, fixing our hair before fourth period. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sickly glow on the chipped tiles. We were laughing about a stupid joke when I said I had to go to class. Mara grabbed my arm, her eyes wide, and whispered, ‘Wait, don’t leave. They’re here.’

I blinked at her, confused. ‘What are you talking about?’

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a tremble. ‘I’ve seen them. Little boys, crying in the corners. If you look hard enough, you can see them in the mirrors.’

I laughed it off, thinking she was messing with me, but her grip was tight. Out of curiosity, I glanced at the row of mirrors above the sinks. At first, I saw nothing but our reflections. But then, in the far corner of the mirror, I caught a flicker—a small figure, transparent and wavering. It was a boy, maybe seven years old, with hollow eyes and a wide, mocking grin. He stared right at me, and I felt a chill crawl down my spine. I turned away, my heart pounding, and dragged Mara out of there.

Later that day, I had to go back. My hair was a mess after gym, and the mirror in the locker room was cracked. So I returned to that same second-floor bathroom, telling myself it was busy and I’d be fine. The moment I pushed open the door, the air felt wrong—heavy, cold, and silent except for a faint, eerie music. It was a lullaby, humming from nowhere and everywhere. I was alone. I walked to the sink, turned on the tap, and tried to ignore the melody. But then, I heard a soft chuckle behind me.

I spun around. There, by the last stall, stood a boy—a different one, with wild black hair and a sly smirk. He started walking toward me, his steps silent, his eyes never leaving mine. I tried to run, but my feet were frozen to the floor. He was inches away, and I could feel his cold breath on my face, when he suddenly vanished—just a pop of air, and he was gone. The music stopped, and I bolted out of there, almost crashing into a classmate.

I should have stayed away, but something kept pulling me back. Maybe it was disbelief, or a morbid curiosity. That evening, after school, I found myself at the entrance to the old condemned wing, where the bathrooms were said to be haunted. The janitor had told me stories of boys who drowned in the sinks decades ago. I didn’t believe it, but I was desperate to understand.

I pushed open the heavy door. The bathroom was a ruin: rusted pipes, shattered mirrors, and graffiti. The air was thick with dust. I heard the lullaby again, softer this time. I saw a faint shimmer on a broken mirror, and in it, the reflection of a boy—not the two from before, but a third, with pale hair and a peaceful face, singing. He seemed real, almost solid. I stepped closer, and in the mirror, I saw him reach out a hand. But then, his face twisted into a grimace, and the mirror cracked, sending shards across the floor.

I stumbled back, and the floor gave way beneath me. I plunged into darkness, landing hard on a damp concrete floor. I was in some kind of basement, cold and damp. In the dim light, I saw them—dozens of little boys, all in tattered clothes, their eyes black and void. They surrounded me, their laughter bouncing off the walls. I screamed, but no sound came out.

I woke up in the school nurse’s office. They said I had fainted in the hallway. But I knew what I had seen. And I knew I was never going near that bathroom again. Yet, as I walked to my next class, I caught a glimpse of a mirror in the hallway—and for a second, I saw a small figure behind my reflection. I turned around. The hall was empty. I told myself it was my imagination. But I could still hear that lullaby, echoing in my mind, and I knew it was only a matter of time before they came again.