The Reflection in the Dark

I never told this story to anyone, not even my sisters. It happened when I was sixteen, during a summer visit to my grandmother’s village in the Mekong Delta. Our house stood on stilts over a canal, and at night the water was black as oil. I shared a cramped room with my two cousins, Linh and Mai. They slept on a mat by the window, and I had a narrow cot pushed against the wall, facing a large antique mirror that my grandmother swore had been in the family for three generations. The mirror’s glass was cloudy, and its wooden frame was carved with twisting serpents.

The days there were suffocating. The heat clung to your skin like a wet cloth, and the air smelled of mud and decaying fruit. We would lie on the floor with a fan that only stirred the hot air. At night, the darkness was absolute. The power often flickered, and we relied on oil lamps that cast long, dancing shadows. I hated that mirror. It was the first thing I saw when I woke, and the last before I slept. Old Ngoc, a neighbor, had warned me not to look into it at night, but I thought she was just a superstitious old woman.

One night, I went to bed late, around eleven. The lamp was extinguished, and the room was swallowed by darkness. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the faint creaks of the house settling. Then, I felt a heavy weight press down on my chest, like someone was sitting on me. I tried to turn my head, but my body was paralyzed. I wanted to call out to Linh and Mai, but my throat was tight, and only a raspy whisper escaped. My heart pounded, and my eyes grew heavy. I struggled to keep them open, but they fluttered shut.

After what felt like an eternity, I managed to pry my eyelids apart just a crack. The room was still dark, but the mirror reflected a faint, pale light—a light that didn’t come from anywhere. In the glass, I saw a dark silhouette standing behind me. It was tall, with limbs too long, and a head that tilted at an unnatural angle. Its face was featureless, a smooth void. I tried to scream, but only a dry wheeze came out. The thing in the mirror slowly raised a hand, and I felt a cold breath on the back of my neck. Then, it spoke—not aloud, but inside my mind, in a voice like rustling leaves: ‘You should not have come.’

I forced my eyes shut and prayed to every deity I knew. The weight on my chest grew heavier, and I felt like I was sinking into the mattress. Then, just as suddenly, it lifted. I could move again. I sat up, gasping, and turned on the lamp. The mirror reflected only me, pale and sweating. Linh and Mai were still asleep, oblivious. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

The next morning, I told my grandmother what I had seen. She grew quiet and looked at the mirror with a strange fear. ‘That mirror belonged to your great-aunt,’ she said. ‘She died in this house, in that very room. They say she was not ready to leave.’ I wanted to get rid of it, but my grandmother refused, saying it was bad luck to break an old mirror. So I covered it with a cloth every night before sleep. But I could still feel its gaze, even through the cloth.

One night, I woke up again at the same hour. The cloth had fallen. The mirror was bare. This time, I didn’t look at it directly, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw the silhouette again, and it was closer. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and a voice whispered in my ear: ‘You cannot hide from me.’ I squeezed my eyes shut, my heart pounding. Then, I heard my grandmother’s voice, as clear as if she were beside me, saying, ‘Ignore it. It feeds on fear. Focus on your breathing.’ I did as she said, and the presence faded.

I left Vietnam a week later. I never told my cousins what happened. But to this day, I have a phobia of mirrors. I can’t have one in my room, and I always sleep facing away from any reflective surface. Sometimes, when I’m in a dim room, I catch a glimpse of a dark shape in my peripheral vision, and I hear that voice: ‘You cannot hide.’ I still wonder if it was real or a dream, but deep down, I know it was real. And I know that mirror is still there, waiting for its next visitor.