The Second-Floor Mirror

I never believed in ghosts until the summer we moved into the glass house. It wasn’t made of glass, of course, but the architect had a passion for mirrors—every wall, every door, every surface reflected something back at you. The place was a labyrinth of light and distortion, a modern marvel perched on the edge of a salt marsh in Delaware. My brother, Evan, had driven down from Nova Scotia to help me settle in, and we spent the first day lugging cardboard boxes up the winding staircase that split the house into two mirrored halves.

I was in the master bedroom on the second floor, unwrapping crystal goblets, when I heard Evan’s voice from below. He was asking about lunch. I called back that I’d be down in a minute. As I turned to set the goblets on the shelf, I caught a glimpse of someone in the tall, floor-to-ceiling mirror that lined the hallway beyond the open door. It was Evan, or at least it looked like him from behind, wearing the same faded blue T-shirt he had on. He was standing at the far end of the hall, near the guest room, his head tilted as if listening.

‘Hey, Ev! I thought you were downstairs!’ I shouted, a little annoyed. He didn’t respond. I took a step toward the hallway, but the figure didn’t move. It just stood there, perfectly still. The hair on my arms prickled. I slowly walked to the doorway and peered down the hall—it was empty. The mirror reflected the hallway, the closed guest room door, and nothing else.

I shrugged it off as a trick of the light or my tired eyes. Downstairs, I found Evan in the kitchen, unpacking a box of canned goods. He looked up and smiled. ‘Finally decided to join me?’ he said. I froze. ‘I just saw you upstairs. In the mirror.’ Evan’s smile faded. ‘I haven’t been up there since we carried the mattress. You’re starting to sound like Mom with her old house stories.’

I let it go, but the unease lingered. Over the next few weeks, small things began to happen. The flat-screen TV in the living room would click on by itself, showing static, and then click off. The ceiling fan in the study would spin up to full speed for a few seconds, then stop. Once, I found a glass of water on the kitchen counter that I didn’t remember pouring. I chalked it up to the house settling, the wind, my own absent-mindedness.

But the mirror in the upstairs hallway became a constant source of dread. Every time I passed it, I felt a pull, a sense that something was just out of frame. One evening, as the sun was setting and the house grew dim, I walked past it carrying a laundry basket. In the mirror, I saw a figure standing behind me—a woman in a white dress, her face obscured by the shadows. I spun around, but the hallway was empty. My heart hammered. I looked back at the mirror; the woman was gone.

I told Evan about it, and he suggested we cover the mirror. We hung a heavy drape over it, but the feeling persisted. I started sleeping with the lights on, and I avoided that end of the hallway. The last incident happened a week before I moved out. I was running late for work and dashed down the stairs, but as I reached the bottom, I glanced back up. The mirror was uncovered—the drape had fallen—and in it, I saw not the staircase behind me, but a reflection of the upstairs hallway, and the woman standing there, her hand raised as if in farewell.

I moved out two months later, into a small apartment with no mirrors except the one in the bathroom. I never told anyone the full story until now. To this day, I don’t know what I saw, but I know it wasn’t my eyes playing tricks on me. Some reflections are more than just light.