The Mirror’s Debt

My name is Maya. My best friend Cora and I met in seventh grade, but we didn’t become inseparable until freshman year. We’d both had our share of odd occurrences before we met, but when we started hanging out, the weirdness cranked up to eleven.

The first incident happened at Cora’s place, an old farmhouse on the outskirts of a town called Hollow Hills. Her family had a room that was used as a guest bedroom, but it had this massive, floor-length mirror bolted to the wall, a relic from the previous owners. Cora’s little brother, Leo, was eight at the time. He was a sweet kid, always tagging along, and Cora was patient with him, unlike most teens.

We had a sleepover that night. I woke up early because Cora’s rooster was a relentless alarm clock, and I padded downstairs to the kitchen, where her mom was making pancakes. Leo was already there, gobbling a bowl of cereal. About twenty minutes later, Cora came down, rubbing her eyes. She stopped dead, face twisted in confusion, and looked straight at Leo. ‘When did you get up, squirt? I just gave you a hug upstairs in the hallway.’ Leo looked up, cereal milk dripping, and said, ‘I’ve been here since before Maya came down. You must’ve been dreaming.’ Cora’s face went pale. She hasn’t slept in that hallway since.

We tried to brush it off, but things escalated. A week later, I was over at her house, and we were in the guest room, talking. The mirror was covered with a sheet because her mom didn’t like the way it reflected the window. As we talked, I caught a glimpse of something odd—a shadow that lingered longer than it should. I turned, but the room was empty. I told Cora, and she admitted she’d been feeling watched in that room. We pulled the sheet off the mirror, and there, on the glass, was a message written in what looked like fog: ‘I REMEMBER YOU.’ We both stared, then Cora screamed. We never went in that room again.

But the mirror had a way of following us. A month later, we were at my house, and I had a small mirror on my vanity. In the reflection, I saw my closet door open, but when I turned, it was closed. Then I heard Cora’s voice from upstairs, but she was right next to me. ‘I’m here,’ she said, her voice trembling. The thing was, the voice from upstairs had said the exact same words, but a second earlier, like an echo from a future that shouldn’t exist.

We decided to investigate the history of Cora’s house. We found out that a woman named Eliza had lived there in the 1920s. She was a writer, and she had a twin sister, Rose, who died in a fire. Eliza was convinced Rose’s ghost was trying to communicate through the mirror. She covered it with a sheet, but one day, she died in front of it, some say of fright. The mirror was sold, and the house changed hands several times, but the mirror always ended up back in that room.

We tried to cleanse the mirror, but we were in over our heads. One night, we performed a simple ritual with salt and candles, hoping to banish whatever was there. As we chanted, the mirror fogged up, and a handprint appeared, pushing out from the other side. Then a face materialized—a woman with hollow eyes and a gaping mouth, screaming in silence. We ran, but the next morning, Cora looked different. She had dark circles under her eyes, and she kept glancing at reflective surfaces. She whispered to me, ‘It’s in my head now.’

Over the next weeks, Cora became withdrawn. She’d have conversations with the air, talking to someone named Eliza. She told me that Eliza had transferred her spirit into the mirror, and she needed a new body to escape. Cora was the chosen one. I tried to help, but every time I confronted the mirror, I saw my own reflection twisted, my eyes turning black, my mouth stretching into a smile that wasn’t mine.

One night, Cora called me, her voice cracked. ‘Maya, I found a way to stop her. She wants a trade. I have to give her my reflection—but then I’ll be invisible to mirrors forever.’ I rushed over to find her standing in front of the mirror, candle in hand. The glass was rippling like water. She turned to me, tears streaming, and said, ‘Promise me you’ll remember me.’ Then she plunged her hand into the mirror. The glass turned black, and she was yanked, leaving me in darkness.

When the lights came back, the mirror was cracked. Cora was gone, but on the glass was a message in her handwriting: ‘I’m still here. But she wants you too.’

I haven’t looked into a mirror since. I keep every reflective surface covered. But at night, I hear a tapping from my bathroom, and when I close my eyes, I see that face—Rose’s face, or is it Eliza’s?—staring back at me, waiting. And the worst part is, I think she knows that I can’t cover every reflection. But I’ll try. I’ll try until I can’t.