The Mirror’s Hunger

The house sat at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, its red brick facade almost too neat, too new, as if it had been scrubbed of any history. My brother Leon had finally achieved his dream: a detached house with a small garden, a spare room for guests, and a master bedroom with a walk-in closet. He and our other brother, Marcus, had moved in a month ago, and tonight they were hosting a housewarming party. I offered to help with the preparations, so I arrived early, my two small children in tow, with a bag full of party clothes and makeup, planning to get ready in Leon’s room before the guests arrived.

Leon’s bedroom was a testament to his practicality: a neatly made bed, a minimalist dresser, and a huge built-in wardrobe with mirrored doors that stretched from floor to ceiling. The mirror spanned the entire wall opposite the bed, reflecting the room in a slightly distorted way. I set my makeup bag on the dresser and plugged my straighteners into the socket on the left wall, just beside the wardrobe. My children were in the living room with Marcus, watching cartoons, so I had a quiet hour to myself.

As I ran the straighteners through my hair, I caught my reflection in the mirror. It was odd, but the mirror seemed to lag behind my movements, a fraction of a second too slow. I blinked, and it was normal again. I shrugged it off, applying makeup, but every time I looked up, the reflection was there, watching me, its eyes a shade darker than mine. I told myself it was just the lighting, the newness of the house, my nerves. But then, I saw it: the reflection’s hand moved, not in sync with mine, but just slightly off, as if it were performing the same actions a moment after me, deliberately out of step.

I froze, the straighteners hissing against my hair. The reflection did not mimic my pause; instead, it continued, raising its hand to touch the glass, leaving a faint smudge on the mirror. I stepped back, my heart pounding. Something was wrong. I turned away, telling myself I was tired, and went to check on the children. When I came back, the mirror was clean, and my reflection was perfectly normal. I took a deep breath, finished getting ready, and went down to greet the guests.

The party was a success. Laughter echoed through the house, and I almost forgot the incident. But Marcus looked pale, pulling me aside later. ‘There’s something in my room,’ he whispered. ‘I hung that old picture frame I bought at a flea market, and my reflection keeps blinking when I don’t.’ I laughed nervously, but he insisted. ‘And Leon, he’s been sleeping with the lights on, saying the wardrobe door won’t stay shut.’

I remembered the mirror in Leon’s room, how it had felt like it was watching. I didn’t sleep that night, tossing in the guest bed, listening to the house settle. Around 3 a.m., I heard a sound: a soft scraping, like fingernails on glass. I crept to the doorway of Leon’s room, which was ajar. The room was bathed in moonlight, and the wardrobe mirror was glowing faintly. The reflection of the room was there, but my brother was not in it. Instead, the reflection showed an empty room, the bed unmade, and in the mirror’s depth, a figure stood, its head tilted, staring at me through the glass.

I ran back to the guest room, grabbing my kids, and called Leon. He was in the living room, having slept on the couch, looking haggard. ‘I can’t go in there anymore,’ he said. ‘Every time I close my eyes, I hear tapping from inside the mirror.’ We stayed in the living room, huddled together until dawn. As the first light crept in, I went to the bedroom, determined to cover the mirror. But when I pulled the duvet to drape over it, I saw something that made my blood run cold: my reflection in the mirror, but it was not me. It was older, gaunt, and it was smiling, and its hand was pressed against the glass, leaving a handprint that looked like it was on the inside.

I threw the duvet over the mirror, but it would not stay. The fabric slipped off, landing on the floor. The mirror was now completely dark, reflecting nothing. The room felt cold, and I heard a child’s whisper from behind me, but when I spun around, there was no one. My children were in the hall, their faces pale. ‘Mommy, there’s a lady in the mirror, and she gave me this,’ my daughter said, holding out a small, silver locket that was not ours. Inside was a tiny photograph of a woman with hollow eyes and a wide, unnatural smile.

We left that house, and Leon sold it at a loss a month later. But the mirror did not stay behind. It found us in our new apartment, in a hotel, in my own bedroom. It is always there, at the edge of my vision, waiting. And when I look into any reflective surface, I see it, a shape, a presence, a hunger that cannot be satiated. I know now that some houses are not built, they are born, and this one was born from a void that hungers for reflections, for the souls that cast them. And I fear it has already taken my brother’s, for the last time I saw Leon, he was staring into his phone screen, and his reflection was not his own.