The Mirror’s Dry Throat

My name is Elias, and this happened to my partner, Mira, less than an hour ago. I’m typing this from our cramped kitchen table, the laptop screen the only light source against the oppressive darkness of our apartment. I needed to find answers, to make sense of the thing that spoke with my voice and wore my face.

We live in a converted warehouse on the edge of the city, a sprawling open space with exposed brick and steel beams. The bathroom is a glass box in the center of the loft, a modern design that offers no privacy, a fishbowl for our ablutions. A narrow hallway connects the living area to the bedroom, and from our worn-out leather couch, you have a direct line of sight through the bathroom’s clear walls to the shower stall. That was our compromise for the cheap rent.

I was deep into a game, the kind with endless side quests and monotonous combat that lets your mind wander. Mira was in the shower, the hiss of water a constant white noise. The world was normal. The steam fogged the glass walls, obscuring her silhouette into a graceful blur. It was a Tuesday, unremarkable.

The water stopped. The squeak of the shower door. The rustle of a towel. Then Mira’s voice, casual, cutting through the silence. ‘Elias, why didn’t you grab your mug of coffee off the sink?’

I didn’t remember putting a mug there. I’d finished my coffee hours ago, washed the cup, and put it back in the cabinet. ‘Forgot I left it there,’ I said, not looking up from the screen.

‘You were just in here,’ she said, a hint of annoyance creeping in. ‘We talked for like ten minutes while I was rinsing my hair. You said you were going to get that mug for yourself.’

My thumbs froze on the controller. A cold knot tightened in my stomach. ‘Mira, I haven’t moved from this couch for the last hour.’

Silence. The bathroom door slid open, and she stepped out, wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping. Her face was pale, the blood drained away. ‘Don’t joke like that,’ she said, her voice trembling.

‘I’m not joking,’ I said, standing up, the controller dropping to the cushion. ‘I swear to you, I have been here the entire time.’

Her eyes darted to the bathroom, then back to me. ‘I saw you. You stood right there,’ she pointed to the sink, ‘and you asked for your mug. You said the coffee had gone cold and you wanted a fresh one. You even smiled at me in the mirror. That weird little smile you do when you’re amused.’

I don’t have a weird little smile. I knew that. And I never smiled at her reflection. I was terrified, a primal dread flooding my veins. This wasn’t a prank. This was wrong.

I walked to the bathroom, my legs feeling like lead. The mirror was still fogged, the surface beaded with condensation. I wiped a clear patch with my palm. My reflection stared back, my own face, but the eyes seemed darker, hollowed. I looked away, back at Mira.

‘We need to get out of here,’ she whispered, her eyes wide, fixed on the mirror behind me.

I turned, but there was nothing. Just my reflection, the glass slowly misting over again.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘In the mirror, just for a second… I saw you. Behind you. But you were smiling.’

I spun around. There was no one. Just the empty shower, the steam dissipating. My heart hammered against my ribs. The mirror was now completely fogged, useless.

We didn’t speak as we gathered our keys and coats. We didn’t look back. The loft echoed with our footsteps. As we reached the door, I heard something behind us. A faint, dry rasp, like a throat clearing. It came from the bathroom.

I grabbed Mira’s hand, yanked open the door, and we fled into the hallway, slamming it shut behind us. We ran down the stairs, not stopping until we burst out into the cool night air, gasping.

Now we’re sitting in our car, parked two blocks away. Mira is shaking, clutching my arm. I’m writing this on my phone because I don’t know what else to do. I keep replaying what she said about the smile. And I realize now, the worst part isn’t that something imitated me. It’s that I felt a flicker of amusement when she described it. A dry, quiet voice in my head that sounded like me, whispering, ‘Good.’

We can’t go back. But I have a terrible feeling that whatever it was, it’s not confined to the loft. It’s in the mirror, waiting for us to look again.