The Reflection in the Lacquer

I moved into Lena’s spare room in her old Victorian flat above a shuttered bakery in early March, drawn by the cheap rent and the promise of a fresh start. Lena was a friend of a friend, a quiet art restorer who kept odd hours and smelled faintly of turpentine. The first week passed uneventfully, filled with unpacking boxes and the steady hum of the city below. Then, on the seventh morning, Lena came down to breakfast with a haunted look, her fingers trembling around her coffee mug. She said she’d woken to find a dark shape sprawled across the ceiling directly above her bed, like a stain of dried tar, and that it had pulsed with a faint, greasy shimmer. I laughed it off, blaming the old pipes and her overactive imagination. She’d always been the type to see ghosts in every creak, I thought.

But the next day, she was worse. She described the figure again, this time with a grotesque network of veins crawling across its surface, and eyes—sallow, jaundiced orbs that seemed to have no whites. She said when she met its gaze, it dissolved into a trickle of shadow, as if it had been startled. She was so shaken that she packed a bag and moved in with her boyfriend, leaving me the remaining nine months of the lease. I was uneasy, but the rent was a steal, and I’ve never been one to believe in the supernatural. I told myself it was stress, maybe a bad reaction to a new medication she was on.

For a week, the flat was mine alone, and it was silent except for the occasional groan of the building. I had a small mutt named Gristle, a scruffy terrier mix with a sixth sense for rats and, apparently, for things that shouldn’t be. On the tenth night after Lena left, I fell asleep on the couch with the TV murmuring an old episode of Pretty Little Liars. At some point, I startled awake to the show’s theme song, a catchy, eerie melody that had always felt a little too on the nose. I tried to lift my head, to turn toward the screen, but my body was locked, paralyzed, as if I’d been drugged. My eyes strained sideways, and I saw the flickering light of the TV cast a strange, dancing pattern on the wall. Then, from the corner of the room, a voice whispered—low, scratchy, and horribly close to my ear, as if the speaker was kneeling beside the couch. It began to sing along to the theme song, its voice cracking on the high notes, mispronouncing the lyrics just slightly, as if it were learning from hearing. I squeezed my eyes shut and willed myself back to sleep, my heart hammering so loudly I thought it might burst.

When I woke, the TV was off, and Gristle was licking my face, whining. I shoved it off and lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself it had been a night terror. But that afternoon, while I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth, Gristle began to bark furiously at the large, ornate mirror that hung over the dresser in my bedroom. She’d always been a barker at her own reflection, but this was different—her hackles were raised, her body tense, and she wouldn’t stop, even when I called her. I walked in and saw nothing but my own tired face and the dusty glass. I scolded her and shut the door, but she stood outside, growling low in her throat.

The next night, I was in bed, trying to read, when I noticed Gristle staring at the mirror again, her ears swiveling. I looked up, and for a split second, I saw a shape in the glass—a darker patch against the dim light of the room, shifting like oil on water. When I blinked, it was gone, but the air in the room felt heavy, and I realized the temperature had dropped several degrees. I pulled the covers tighter, but the feeling of being watched crept up my spine. I turned on every light in the apartment, but the unease didn’t fade. I called Lena, but she didn’t pick up. I left a voicemail, my voice shaking, asking if she’d ever experienced anything like this, and what she’d done to make it stop.

The next morning, I found Gristle crouched in the corner of the kitchen, trembling, her eyes fixed on the mirror in the hallway. I covered every mirror in the flat with sheets, telling myself it was a pragmatic solution, but it didn’t help. That night, I was lying in bed, the sheets pulled up to my chin, when the sheets around me began to move. I felt a weight press down on the mattress, and I turned to see a face materializing in the air beside me—a face that was not human. It was featureless, except for those pinprick jaundice eyes, and it opened a dark gash of a mouth. It spoke in that same scratchy voice, but this time it said, ‘I’ve been waiting. She left, but you stayed.’

I screamed, and it withdrew, melting backward into the wall, leaving a faint residue of shadow. Gristle barked herself hoarse, but there was nothing I could do. I grabbed my phone and my keys, intending to flee, but when I reached the front door, it wouldn’t open. The lock turned, but the door felt solid, as if held by some unseen force. I pounded on it, screaming for help, but the only answer was the sound of that voice, now emanating from every direction, chuckling low.

I’m writing this from the bathroom, the only room without a mirror, with Gristle cowering under the sink. I’ve barricaded the door with towels, but I can hear it scraping across the floorboards outside, humming that theme song. I don’t know how long I can hold out. I should have believed Lena. I should have realized that when you leave a mirror uncovered, you invite something in—and when you look into it, you’re looking back at yourself, but it’s not yourself at all. The last thing I saw before I ran in here was the reflection in the bathroom mirror, but it wasn’t mine. It was that thing, wearing my face, and it smiled. Then the mirror went dark, and I heard it whisper, ‘You’re a part of the story now.’

I just hope someone finds this before it finishes whatever it started. If you’re reading this, don’t trust the reflections. Ever.