The Sunday Mirror

The house on Mango Street in the old part of San Miguel was a leaning stack of rooms, each pressing against the next. We rented the top floor, a warren of cramped bedrooms and dusty corners. My brother and I shared a box of a room with a single window that looked out onto the neighbor’s laundry lines, their damp clothes always blocking whatever meager light the afternoon could spare. The staircase up swelled and creaked, and the banister was loose enough to wobble.

Downstairs, the landlady kept her storage in a narrow, windowless corridor. The ceiling was patched with corrugated plastic that let in a gray, watery light, and the walls were lined with boxes that had been there since before we moved in. The street outside was so tight that you could hear the family next door argue about dinner, and the school two blocks over was a constant murmur of recitations and bells.

The room was short on furniture, so we kept our clothes in our parents’ closet. We had no mirror in our own room, so I’d usually use the one in my parents’ or my aunt’s. My aunt, Tita Lita, had a full-length mirror propped against the wall in her room, its frame carved with vines and flowers, the glass slightly warped so that you appeared thinner or taller depending on how you stood. I loved looking at myself in it, especially on Sundays when I’d try on my best dress, twisting this way and that, pretending I was someone else.

That Sunday, the house was quiet. My parents had gone to visit a sick relative, and my brother was out playing with his friends. A faint rain began, and the plastic roof below started to drum. I was in Tita Lita’s room, alone, checking my reflection. The mirror was propped against the wall as usual, but I noticed my reflection seemed slower than my movements. I blinked, and my reflection blinked a half-second later. I laughed at myself, thinking it was the old glass playing tricks.

I turned to leave, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw the mirror change. My reflection wasn’t looking at me anymore. It was looking at the corner of the room where a shadow stretched unnaturally. I froze. My reflection slowly raised a hand and pointed at the mirror itself. I turned slowly, expecting something behind me, but there was nothing. When I looked back at the mirror, my reflection smiled, a smile too wide, a smile I hadn’t made. Then it mouthed three words, and though no sound came, I understood: ‘They’re listening.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the mirror. My brother snored beside me, and I heard the distant barking of a dog. Then I heard a soft creak from downstairs, the same creak when the storage room door opened. I lay still, listening. Someone was walking along the corridor, their steps slow and deliberate, crunching on a loose piece of plastic. The sound stopped directly below us.

I held my breath. A voice, my aunt’s voice, called up the stairs, ‘Are you still awake? I haven’t forgotten.’ But I knew she was out for the night. The voice came again, ‘You like looking at yourself, don’t you? You like seeing someone you’re not.’ The tone wasn’t hers. It was too smooth, like oil.

I slipped out of bed and crept to the hallway, peering down at the stairs. The corridor below was dim, lit by a single bulb that flickered. At the far end, I saw the storage door open. And from inside, a figure stepped out. It wore my aunt’s Sunday dress, but it was too short, like a child wearing adult clothes. It turned to face me, and where my reflection’s face should have been, it was a smooth, blank oval, like the back of a mirror.

The next morning, I told my parents, but they laughed it off, saying I’d had a nightmare. But I saw the fear in my brother’s eyes. He whispered later that he’d heard our aunt’s voice too, but it was from inside the storage room. We tried to avoid the mirror, but it was everywhere. Every time I passed my aunt’s room, I’d see it out of the corner of my eye, and my reflection would be a step behind, or a step ahead.

A week later, my aunt came back from a trip. She seemed tired, but normal. That night, I woke to a sound in the mirror. It was vibrating, humming softly. I walked to her room. The mirror was covered with a sheet. Someone had covered it. I pulled the sheet away, and my reflection was there, but it was wearing my dress, the one I’d worn last Sunday. It smiled, and then it spoke in perfect, awful mimicry of my voice, ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’

I screamed, but no one came. The mirror began to ripple, and the surface became liquid, a pool of silver. My own hand reached out to touch it, and I saw my face press against the glass from the other side, eyes wide, mouth stretched in a silent cry. I stumbled back, and the mirror went still, normal, but I knew it wasn’t over.

The next morning, my brother was gone. His bed was empty. My parents searched everywhere, but he’d vanished. The only thing I found was a note, in his handwriting, on the floor of Tita Lita’s room. It said, ‘They’re listening. They’re always listening. Don’t let them see you.’ I ran to the mirror and saw his reflection, his face pale and frightened, behind my shoulder. He mouthed, ‘Help me,’ and then he was gone.

The house has been quiet since. My parents have stopped talking about it, but they never sold the mirror. I see them sometimes, standing before it, whispering to their reflections. And every night, I hear the footsteps below, and the voice calling up the stairs, ‘You like looking at yourself, don’t you?’ I refuse to look. But the mirror is patient. It knows that one day, I’ll forget, and I’ll glance at it again.

Last Sunday, I was dusting the room, and I saw the mirror out of the corner of my eye. In it, the room behind me was still, but my reflection had already turned, and it was smiling at me. I didn’t turn around. I just kept cleaning. But I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and a voice, so close, whispered, ‘You’re already here,’ and I saw that my reflection was not in front of me anymore. It was behind me.

Now, I write this note, hidden in the floorboards of a house that doesn’t exist anymore. If you find this, burn the mirror. Don’t let it see your face. It’s waiting.