The Still Reflection

The alarm on my phone blared at 6:00 AM, a sound I had never heard on a Sunday. My eyes snapped open, and I stared at the glowing digits, my mind sluggish with disbelief. I never woke up this early, not even on weekdays when I had to drag myself to the office. The room was still dark, the curtains drawn tight against the morning light, and the air was thick with the stale scent of last night’s takeout. I groaned and reached for my phone, intending to check for any urgent messages, but the screen flickered and died, showing only a red battery icon. I had forgotten to charge it again.

Groggily, I swung my legs out of bed and shuffled across the cold wooden floor to the charging station near the tall, full-length mirror that was propped against the wall, a relic from the previous tenant. I plugged in the charger, and the phone let out a soft beep as it began to draw power. As I straightened up, my gaze accidentally caught my reflection in the dim light. But something was wrong. There, behind my shoulder, stood a figure—a blurred silhouette of a woman with long, dark hair draped over white clothing. Her face was indistinct, like a smudged painting, and she seemed to hover just inches away.

My heart slammed against my ribs, and a cold jolt of fear shot through me. I spun around, my breath catching, but the space behind me was empty. Just the empty room, the shadowed corners, and the faint outline of the radiator. I turned back to the mirror, and there she was again, still, unmoving, her form slightly off-center, as if she was watching me with hidden eyes. My skin prickled, and I stumbled backward, knocking over a chair in my haste. I scrambled to my bed, my eyes darting wildly around the room, searching for any sign of the intruder. But there was nothing. Only silence, and the faint hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen.

My first instinct was to wake my roommate, but I remembered that both of them had gone to visit family the night before, leaving me alone in the apartment. I was completely alone. Panic began to creep in, but I forced myself to breathe, to rationalize. It must be a trick of the light, a shadow playing on my tired eyes. I looked back at the mirror, but the figure had vanished. I let out a shaky breath and decided to ignore it, convincing myself that I was still half-asleep.

Later that morning, after the sun had fully risen, I tried to put the incident behind me. I went about my day, watched a movie, made some coffee, and tried to shake off the lingering unease. But as evening fell and the room grew darker, the memory came back, and I couldn’t help but glance at the mirror whenever I passed. I thought about calling my roommate, but I didn’t want to sound crazy. Instead, I decided to cover the mirror with a sheet, just to ease my mind. As I lifted the fabric, the reflection of the room blurred, and for a split second, I saw her again—this time, her face was clearer, and her eyes were hollow black pits.

I threw the sheet over the mirror and backed away, my hands trembling. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the covered mirror, every shadow in the room seeming to move. At around 3 AM, I heard a faint scratching sound, like nails on glass, coming from the mirror. I pulled the covers over my head, my heart pounding, and whispered a prayer. The scratching stopped, but then I heard a soft, almost inaudible voice, whispering my name. It was a woman’s voice, low and mournful.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed my phone, which was now charged, and called my roommate Daniel, but he didn’t answer. I called the other, but it went straight to voicemail. I was trapped in that apartment with that presence. I spent the rest of the night in the far corner of the living room, with all the lights on, watching the covered mirror with wild eyes.

When dawn finally broke, I decided I needed to get out. I grabbed my keys and rushed to the door, but as I reached for the handle, I caught my reflection in the dark glass of the window. She was there again, standing right behind me, so close that if I turned, I would touch her. I froze. Her long hair was dripping wet, and her white dress was stained with something dark. I could feel a cold breath on the back of my neck. I squeezed my eyes shut and turned, but there was nothing. I yanked open the door and ran down the stairs, not stopping until I was outside in the blinding morning light.

I never went back to that apartment. I moved in with a friend for a few weeks, and later found a new place across town. But sometimes, when I least expect it, I’ll catch a glimpse of a blurry figure in a reflection—a store window, a bathroom mirror, the rearview mirror of my car—a woman with long hair and white clothes, standing just behind my shoulder. And every time, I feel that cold breath on my neck, and I know she’s still watching, waiting. The mirror may be covered, but she’s never truly gone.