The Prismatic Glass

After the movie ended, the chandelier in Lila’s living room spat out four of its five bulbs in a cascade of popping glass. The remaining bulb flickered, casting a sickly yellow light across the room. I tried to assure her it was just a voltage surge, but Lila, who had been clutching the armrest since the first jump scare, didn’t look convinced. She wrapped her arms around herself, shaking her head. ‘It’s not just that,’ she said, her voice thin. ‘It’s been a weird week.’ She didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t press. We said our goodnights, and I drove back to the base housing I was vacating, the red taillights of departing trucks the only movement on the empty street.

Early the next morning, I arrived at Lila’s place to pick her up for work. The house was silent, the porch light off. I knocked, and after a long moment, she opened the door. Her face was pale, and she was clutching a small, cracked mirror. ‘Look at this,’ she said, holding it out. The glass was fractured, but not shattered, and in the cracks, I saw a prismatic pattern of light, like a rainbow trapped in a spiderweb. ‘My grandmother gave me this mirror,’ she said. ‘It’s been in our family for generations. I found it on the floor this morning, and the shards are warm.’ I touched the surface; it was indeed warm, almost feverish. ‘It’s just a coincidence,’ I said, but as I spoke, the mirror hummed, a low, resonant tone that vibrated through my fingers.

The drive to work was unusually quiet. Lila kept glancing at the mirror, which she had placed in the cup holder. I tried to make conversation, but she was distant, answering in monosyllables. At a stoplight, she gasped. A seagull had crashed into the windshield, leaving a spiderweb of cracks on the driver’s side. ‘It came out of nowhere,’ she whispered. I got out to inspect the damage, and the bird lay on the asphalt, its eyes open, blood pooling beneath its beak. Its neck was bent at an unnatural angle. Just then, the light turned green, and the car behind us honked. I got back in, my heart beating a little faster than it should.

At the office, Lila was a wreck. She couldn’t focus, and every few minutes she’d check the mirror, which she had tucked into her desk drawer. I tried to reassure her, but the atmosphere was off. The fluorescent lights hummed louder than usual, and the ticking of the clock seemed to sync with the mirror’s faint vibration. Around noon, I went to the break room to get coffee. The instant I poured, the pot cracked, and hot liquid spilled across the counter, narrowly missing my hand. I jumped back, and my elbow hit the tray of cups, sending them scattering. A coworker, Mark, entered and saw the mess. ‘Rough day?’ he asked. I shrugged, but when I looked down, the spilled coffee had formed a shape on the tile—a circle with a horizontal line through it, like a target. I stared at it, and Mark followed my gaze. ‘Weird,’ he said. ‘Almost looks like a symbol.’

By the end of the day, Lila was a nervous wreck. She refused to leave without the mirror, and she clutched it to her chest as we walked to the parking lot. The sun was setting, casting long shadows. When we reached her car, we found every tire flat, and a fine layer of dust had settled on the windshield, as if it had been sitting for weeks. Lila started to cry. ‘What is happening?’ she sobbed. I tried to calm her, but my own hands were shaking. I remembered a story my grandmother used to tell—about a mirror that could show you your own death, and if it cracked, it meant the boundary was thin. I had dismissed it as folklore, but now that memory felt like a cold hand on my neck.

That night, we sat in my apartment, which was filled with boxes. The mirror lay on the coffee table between us, its cracks glowing with an eerie light. Lila hadn’t let go of it since we’d left the parking lot. ‘I feel like it’s watching me,’ she said. I tried to laugh, but the mirror’s hum had grown louder, a deep thrum that seemed to come from inside my head. Then, without warning, the lights flickered and died. The only illumination came from the mirror, which now pulsed with a dark, oily shimmer. A shape began to form in the glass—a silhouette, tall and gaunt, with long arms that seemed to reach outward. I grabbed Lila’s hand. She was trembling. ‘It’s in the mirror,’ she whispered. ‘It’s trying to get out.’

We ran out of the apartment, leaving everything behind. We drove aimlessly, the mirror in the back seat, covered by a towel. But even through the cloth, we could hear it—a soft, rhythmic tapping, like knuckles on glass. Lila was driving, her knuckles white on the wheel. ‘We need to get rid of it,’ she said. ‘Where?’ I asked. She said nothing. We ended up at a cul-de-sac in an abandoned development, a place where the houses were half-built skeletons. We got out, and Lila placed the mirror on the ground, then picked up a rock. ‘I’m sorry, Grandmother,’ she whispered, and she brought the rock down on the mirror. The glass didn’t shatter; it dented, and the prismatic pattern shifted, now resembling a face. Then, with a sound like a scream, the mirror split into two halves, revealing a darkness that seemed to swallow the light. From that darkness, a hand emerged—pale, long-fingered, and impossibly thin. It grasped Lila’s ankle, and she screamed. I tried to pull her away, but the hand was strong. It dragged her toward the gap, and I could see her feet sliding across the gravel. I grabbed her arm, but the hand pulled harder, and I felt my own feet begin to slip. In a final effort, I let go and stumbled back, watching as Lila was pulled into the darkness, her scream cut short as the two halves of the mirror snapped shut, merging into a single, unbroken glass. The prismatic light faded, and the mirror was just a mirror again, lying on the ground.

I stood there for a long time, breathing heavily. Then, slowly, I picked up the mirror. My reflection stared back at me, but it was not my face—it was Lila’s, her eyes wide and pleading, her mouth moving in a silent cry. I dropped the mirror, and it cracked again, and then I saw my own face, but aged, haggard. I stumbled back, my heart pounding. I left the mirror there, in the abandoned development, and I drove away. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was following me—a presence, a weight in the air. And now, as I write this, I hear a soft tapping at my window, a sound like knuckles on glass. I don’t want to look, but the tapping is rhythmic, almost hypnotic. And I realize that the mirror is not gone; it’s in my mind, and it’s showing me my own end. The last thing I see is the prismatic pattern, forming a door, and a hand reaching out to pull me in.