The Mirror of the Forest

My name is Elena, I am 32, and I am a psychiatrist. This past autumn, I joined my partner, Markus, in the remote village of Schwarzthal, nestled deep in the Bavarian Forest, where he was working as a field researcher. We stayed in the cottage of his late aunt, a centuries-old timber house surrounded by dense spruce and fern.

To reach the front door, one had to descend a narrow, winding footpath from the gravel road. Every time Markus and I heard footsteps approaching, we would rush to the bay window to see if it was a lost hiker or his cousin Anna returning from the village. We soon discovered that, from our bed, we could observe the path perfectly through the reflection in the old, slightly rippled windowpane. So we angled the window just so, and whenever we heard the crunch of boots on leaves, we’d glance at the glass and identify the visitor. It was a rare occurrence for a stranger to wander that far off the main trail, but it had happened a few times.

Each morning, we would wake up and hike down to the lake where Markus’s research station was, sharing a simple breakfast of bread and cheese by the water.

It was on the fourth night, when the fog had rolled in thick and the forest seemed to hold its breath, that the footsteps came. I heard them through the half-open window, slow and deliberate, like someone testing each step. I looked at the reflection, expecting to see Anna’s familiar silhouette or perhaps a lost hiker. Instead, I saw a figure that was unnaturally still, standing at the edge of the path, but its reflection did not match the path. It was as if it stood in a corridor of our cottage, with the window behind it.

Markus was already asleep, and I dared not wake him. I convinced myself it was a trick of the ancient glass, warped by years of weather. But the next morning, when I drew the curtains, I saw a row of dark mushrooms sprouting in a perfect line along the path, as if marking a trail. I did not tell Markus.

The second time, it was closer. The footsteps were quicker, almost skittering, and the reflection showed the figure now inside the cottage, standing in our bedroom doorway. Its face was a blur, featureless, and its arms hung too long. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, and it dissolved when I blinked. I hid my fear, but I began to sleep with the window shut.

The third time, it was in the morning. The sun was high, and I was alone, Markus having left early. I heard the sound of a child humming, a melody I recognized from my grandmother’s lullabies. The reflection showed a small figure, no taller than a child, wearing a dress that seemed to be made of moss and bark. It was staring at me from the end of the bed, and in its hand was a single, withered fern. When I turned around, there was nothing, but the fern lay on the pillow.

That evening, I found the old diary of Markus’s aunt in a drawer. Written in fading German, it spoke of a presence called the Waldspiegel, the Forest Mirror, that appears to those who are troubled in mind. It said that it reveals your deepest fear, and if you look away, it claims a piece of your soul.

That night, the footsteps were a torrent, thundering up the path, and the reflection was filled with a dark silhouette that filled the entire window. I was too terrified to move, and Markus was gone to a conference. I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer. When I opened them, the window was clear, but I could feel a cold hand on my shoulder.

I have not slept since. I stay awake all night, watching the reflection, knowing that one day I will see my own face in it, and it will not be me. The villagers say the forest is old and wise, and it knows when you are broken. Markus thinks I am having nightmares, but I know the truth. The mirror is always waiting, and it has already seen into my soul.