The Tall Shape in the Mirror

The old farmhouse on Amber Lane had always felt drafty, but today the cold seemed to seep through the walls like a living thing. I was thirteen, and my best friend Clara was over for the afternoon. We were home alone, listening to the wind rattle the gutters, when the first bang echoed from upstairs. It wasn’t just a thud; it was a heavy, rhythmic pounding, like someone was slamming a fist against the floorboards.

We froze, exchanging wide-eyed looks. Clara grabbed a heavy flashlight from the drawer, while I snatched the antique fire poker from the hearth. The banging stopped as soon as we started up the stairs, replaced by the groan of old wood settling. We checked every room: the dusty master bedroom, the cluttered study, the bathroom with its cracked mirror. Nothing. But the air felt heavier, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t alone.

Back in the hallway, Clara shut the bathroom door with a click. I stood with my back to it, facing her. Her eyes suddenly widened, and her flashlight beam shook. ‘There’s a shape behind you,’ she whispered, her voice trembling. ‘Like a tall, dark shape. It’s not your shadow—it’s way too tall.’

I spun around, my heart hammering, but the hallway was empty. The shape was gone. We bolted down the stairs, not looking back. In the kitchen, Clara went pale and clutched her stomach. ‘I feel sick,’ she said, and before I could say anything, she rushed out the door. I watched her disappear down the lane, and my phone buzzed with a text: ‘I’m sorry, I think I threw up on the way home.’

I sat in the kitchen, the fire poker still in my hands, and stared at the reflection in the window. The sky was grey, and the trees swayed. Then I saw it: a tall, wavering shape, just behind my own reflection, stretching up to the ceiling. I didn’t dare turn around. I just kept staring, until the shape faded into the darkness of the room.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing the banging again, but now it sounded closer, as if it was right outside my door. I crept to the bathroom, hoping to find nothing, but when I looked in the mirror, I saw it again—the tall shape, now wearing my father’s coat, standing behind me. It tilted its head, and I noticed its face was featureless, a smooth pale oval. I stumbled back, and it vanished, leaving only my own terrified reflection.

The next day, I told my mother, but she laughed it off as an old house’s quirks. But I knew better. I searched the attic and found a old photograph of a man, tall and gaunt, standing in front of this very house. On the back was written: ‘He watches over the land.’ I dropped it as if burned. I haven’t been back in that hallway since, but sometimes, late at night, I feel a cold spot behind me, and I know he’s there, waiting for me to turn around.