The Still Reflection

My buddy Marcus had a way of finding trouble. When he texted me about the old county tuberculosis sanitarium, I should have known better. It sat on the edge of town, a crumbling monolith of peeling paint and shattered windows, abandoned since the ’70s. But I was a sucker for ghost hunting shows, and the idea of capturing something on camera was too tempting to resist.

We slipped through a gap in the chain-link fence at dusk. The air inside was thick with dust and the smell of decay. Our flashlights cut through the gloom, illuminating peeling linoleum and overturned gurneys. Marcus was the stronger of us, but even he kept his voice low. We were both nervous, but the adrenaline made it exciting. I had my handheld camera rolling, red light blinking, capturing every creak and groan.

We found a reading room with a massive oak bookcase that had been pushed over, spilling moldy books across the floor. I knelt to inspect it, a chill running down my spine. Nothing, not a single sound. But later, when I reviewed the footage, there was a low, guttural growl that neither of us had heard. It wasn’t human, not quite. I tried to play it off as a pipe or the building settling, but Marcus saw the look on my face.

We moved deeper into the building, following the square corridors. At each corner, there was a bathroom. I remembered the layout from the show we’d watched. We stopped at one on the first corner, and I poked my camera inside, sweeping the beam across the cracked tiles. My reflection appeared in the grimy mirror, pale and distorted. I pulled back, but I left the camera rolling, pointed into the room.

That’s when I saw it. On the small screen, my reflection didn’t move. It stayed frozen, a ghastly statue, while my real body walked away. I stopped dead. Marcus hissed, ‘What is it?’ I turned the camera to show him. The reflection was still there, staring back at us, a smile that was too wide, too sharp. Marcus grabbed my arm, his fingers digging in. ‘We need to get out.’ But I was rooted, fascination overriding fear.

We pressed on, cutting through the dark heart of the building. The lights from our flashlights were weak against the blackness that seemed to swallow sound. I heard a snort from the direction of another bathroom. I called out, ‘Hello?’ Nothing. The snort came again, closer, like an animal clearing its throat. I should have listened to Marcus, but my pride wouldn’t let me back down.

We reached the final bathroom at the back of the hospital. The door was ajar, and inside, the stalls were crumbling. I stepped in, my camera held high. The tiles on the wall were glossy, catching my reflection again. This time, I saw not one, but many reflections, all of me, all frozen, all with that same wrong smile. And as I watched, they began to move, not with me, but in sync, tilting their heads in perfect unison.

Marcus screamed my name from the corridor. I turned to run, but the floor gave way, splintering under my feet. I fell into darkness, a cold, wet pit. When I looked up, I could see the bathroom above, but it was skewed, like a funhouse mirror. And in the reflection, I was still standing, camera in hand, my face a mask of terror. Only then did I realize: they had taken the image of me, and I was the one left behind. The growl I had heard? It was me, trapped in that reflection, forever replaying my own demise.