The Mosaic’s Gaze

December 10, 2012

by Helena

4 min read

Story Premise 4 min read (621 words)

"The apartment always felt a little too quiet, especially in the mornings. Liam and I had moved into the converted textile mill six months ago, drawn to its exposed brick and enormous windows. But the bathroom was a different world, a cramped space with a wall of broken mirrors, reassembled into a jagged mosaic. The […]"

The apartment always felt a little too quiet, especially in the mornings. Liam and I had moved into the converted textile mill six months ago, drawn to its exposed brick and enormous windows. But the bathroom was a different world, a cramped space with a wall of broken mirrors, reassembled into a jagged mosaic. The tileman had called it ‘artistic.’ I called it unsettling.

That Tuesday, I was drying my face after a shower, the steam fogging the already fractured reflections. As I went to leave, a flash of deep crimson caught my eye. I froze. In the mosaic, slightly off-center, was a face—not mine, but a man’s, his skin the color of dried blood, his eyes burning white. It stared back at me, unblinking, before dissolving into the grout. I blinked, shaking, and rationalized it as a trick of the light, a steam-induced phantom. I hurried out, leaving the light on.

That night, Liam and I went to bed as usual. The city hummed outside, a low lullaby. I drifted off, surrounded by the familiar smell of his cologne and the weight of the duvet. Sometime in the deep, grayscale hour of 3 AM, a stinging pain exploded across my cheek. I jolted awake, my hand flying to my face. ‘Liam!’ I hissed, shoving his shoulder. ‘What the hell?’ Liam stirred, groggy and confused. ‘What? I didn’t do anything,’ he mumbled, rolling away. I lay back, my heart thudding. The air in the room felt wrong, like it was being sucked towards the bathroom door.

I tried to settle, but sleep was elusive. When I finally succumbed, a terrible static filled my ears, like a radio tuned to oblivion. My body went rigid, my limbs heavy as stone. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, my lungs frozen mid-breath. My hands, as if controlled by an unseen puppeteer, began to crawl up my chest, fingers seeking my throat. I tried to scream, but only a thin wheeze escaped. I could feel the pressure building, my air cut off.

And then I saw it again—the red face. It hovered in my mind’s eye, closer now, its white irises burning into me. It was different from other haunting presences I’d felt before, the ones you could push away with a prayer. This one felt ancient, patient, and hungry. It didn’t flinch when I mentally recited the Hail Mary. It only grew stronger, its grip tightening on my spirit. Panic surged, making my thoughts frantic. I could only move my foot, desperately nudging Liam, but he slept like the dead. The static grew louder, drowning out all sane thought.

Desperation clawed at me. I couldn’t chant aloud, but I shoved all my fear, all my hope, into a single, silent plea: ‘Dear God, please.’ The face flickered, its intensity wavering for a fraction of a second. I seized that crack of weakness, pouring every ounce of my will into the prayer, repeating it over and over in my mind. The static began to thin, the pressure on my throat easing. The face grimaced, a silent snarl, before dissolving like smoke in a breeze. My body went limp, and I gasped, drenched in cold sweat.

Liam finally stirred, woken by my ragged breathing. ‘Hey, what’s wrong? You’re shaking.’ I didn’t have the words. I just pointed weakly at the bathroom door. He got up, checked the room, and found nothing. But I knew. Something had been there, something far worse than a bad dream. It wasn’t gone, only weakened. I could feel its presence lingering in the cracked mirrors, waiting for me to let my guard down, waiting for the next night when the apartment would fall quiet again.

Related Horror Movies to Watch

The Kidnapping of Paul Griddel

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Garden Island: A Paranormal Documentary

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Jailangkung

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Horror Story

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