The Mirror’s Tenant

I first noticed something was off with my younger brother, Leo, about two weeks after we moved into the old boarding house on Bramblewick Lane. He’d always been a quiet kid, but now he’d spend hours in his room, speaking in hushed tones when he thought no one was listening. At first, I chalked it up to the stress of the move—our parents had split, and we’d had to leave everything we knew behind. But then the laughter started.

It was around 2 AM, a night when the wind rattled the windowpanes like skeletal fingers. I was jolted awake by a high-pitched giggle—not Leo’s usual laugh, but something sharper, almost melodic. It came from his room down the hall. I crept out, my heart thumping, and pressed my ear to his door. The giggling continued, punctuated by a voice—Leo’s, but oddly strained—talking in a rhythm that felt like a nursery rhyme sung backwards. I pushed the door open a crack. The room was lit by the pale glow of his bedside lamp, and Leo was standing in front of the full-length mirror that had come with the wardrobe. His back was to me, and he was speaking to his reflection, his lips moving rapidly, his head tilted as if listening to an answer. I called his name, and he spun around, his eyes wide and unfocused for a second before he smiled. He said, ‘I was just talking to the girl in the mirror.’ I forced myself to laugh and told him to go back to bed. I didn’t sleep the rest of that night.

In the morning, Leo was normal—same quiet demeanor, same bowl of cereal. I tried to bring up the mirror, but he just shrugged and said, ‘She’s nice. She told me her name is Elara.’ I felt a chill run down my spine. I decided to investigate the history of the house, hoping for a rational explanation. The town library had old records, and I found a newspaper article from 1924 about a fire that had claimed the lives of three people: a mother, a daughter, and a son. Their names were Margaret, Elara, and Thomas. The father, a widower named Harold, had survived but later died of grief. The article mentioned he was found in the living room, sitting in a rocking chair next to the fireplace, a look of peace on his face. That was it—three deaths, but I had only felt the presence of the son and the daughter. I never saw them, but I felt their presence, especially in the basement and near the old fireplace. The father, though, I saw him every time we lit a fire—a tall, gaunt figure in a rocking chair, his eyes hollow, rocking gently, staring at the flames as if waiting for something.

A week later, I came home to find Leo standing in front of the mirror again, but this time his reflection was blurred, as if the glass had been frosted from the inside. He was whispering, and his reflection’s mouth was moving in a way that didn’t match his words. I stepped closer, and I saw a second face in the mirror—a girl with pale skin and dark hair, her face partially hidden behind Leo’s shoulder. She was smiling, but her eyes were black, like voids. I shouted, and Leo snapped out of it, looking at me as if he’d just woken up. He asked, ‘What’s wrong?’ I pointed at the mirror, but now it showed only our reflections. I grabbed him by the arm and demanded to know who he was talking to. He said, ‘Elara. She says she’s lonely. She wants me to come see her side.’ I felt a cold dread wash over me. That night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me from every reflective surface—the window, the TV screen, even the silver of a spoon.

The next day, I decided to board up the mirror in Leo’s room. I bought a large wooden plank and some nails, and while Leo was at school, I covered the glass. When he came home, he saw what I’d done and flew into a rage—a violent fury unlike anything I’d ever seen from him. He slammed his fists against the board, shouting, ‘She needs me! You can’t keep her out!’ I held him tight until he collapsed into sobs. That night, as I tried to sleep, I heard a faint tapping coming from Leo’s room, like fingers drumming on glass. I went to check on him. He was asleep, his face peaceful. But the board on the mirror had been pried off, and the mirror was clean, reflecting the moonlit room. And in the reflection, I saw Elara standing behind Leo’s bed, her hands reaching out to his neck. I didn’t wait. I ran in and yanked Leo out of the room, slamming the door shut. For a moment, I heard a low, guttural laugh from inside. Then silence.

I called a priest the next morning. He came and blessed the house, and I thought it was over. But three days later, I saw Leo talking to himself again, not in front of a mirror but at the window, his breath fogging the glass. He traced shapes in the condensation—the outline of a girl with long hair. I told him to stop, but he just smiled and said, ‘She says you can’t keep us apart. She says she’s always been here.’ That night, I heard a voice from the living room. I crept downstairs and found the fireplace lit, though no one had started a fire, and the rocking chair was moving gently. Sitting in it was the figure of Harold, his face gaunt and grey, his eyes fixed on me. He pointed a long, bony finger toward the stairs, and mouthed something. I read his lips: ‘She’s coming.’

I packed our things that night, determined to leave Bramblewick Lane. But as I zipped the suitcase, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window—and it was smiling back at me, my own smile, but too wide. I blinked, and it was normal. A wave of nausea hit me. Leo walked into the room, his eyes shining with a strange joy. He took my hand and said, ‘Don’t worry. Elara said she’ll come with us.’ I looked at the window again, and for a fraction of a second, I saw her—the little girl, her face pressed against the glass from outside, her lips moving silently. I couldn’t move. Leo led me out the door, and I felt a cold hand slip into mine. I didn’t have the courage to look back, but I knew it wasn’t Leo’s hand. It was smaller, colder, and it gripped mine with a strange possessiveness. We got into the car and drove away into the dark, but I knew that wherever we went, she would be there, waiting by the next reflecting surface, ready to speak to Leo again. And maybe, someday, to me.