The Visitor from the Narrow Glass

For years, I’ve been able to see things that others can’t—figures at the edge of vision, faces in windows, a woman in old-fashioned clothes standing by the road. But recently, it’s become more frequent. I thought it was just my mind playing tricks, or maybe the stress of raising four kids. But one night, everything changed.

It was a rare, quiet evening. The kids were asleep, and my husband, Alan, was glued to his computer in the study. I decided to turn in early, hoping for a full night’s sleep. As I drifted off, I felt that familiar prickle—the sense that I wasn’t alone. At first, I thought it was one of the children, coming to climb into our bed. I mumbled, ‘Go back to sleep, sweetie,’ but the feeling persisted. Annoyed, I forced my eyes open.

There, stepping out of the long mirror that hung on the hallway wall, was a man. He was short, middle-aged, wearing work boots, a zipped rain jacket, and a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He noticed me and gave a sweet smile, then waved cheerfully as if we were old friends. Before I could react, he turned and walked down the hallway, vanishing into the shadows.

I sat up, heart pounding. Had I imagined it? I glanced at the mirror—it looked ordinary, reflecting the hallway’s pale wall. I shook my head, trying to rationalize. But then I heard it: soft giggling from my youngest twin daughters’ room. They were awake, and they were laughing.

I slipped out of bed and padded down the hall, my bare feet cold on the wooden floor. The door to their room was ajar, and I could see a sliver of light from their nightlight. I pushed the door open. There they were, sitting up in their beds, both staring at the corner where the mirror hung on the wall. They were laughing and pointing, saying, ‘The man is funny! He’s making faces!’.

My blood ran cold. The mirror in their room was angled so it reflected the hallway, where I had seen the man. They were looking directly into it, giggling as if entertained. I rushed to them, scooping them into my arms, demanding, ‘What man? Where?’ They just pointed at the mirror, their faces bright with innocent joy.

I turned to the mirror. It showed nothing but our reflections, but a chill ran through me. I carried them into my bedroom and locked the door, shaking. Alan was still on his computer, oblivious. When I tried to tell him, he dismissed it as a dream, telling me to get some sleep.

But I couldn’t sleep. I lay there, listening, staring at the door. Just before dawn, I heard a sound from the hallway—a soft scraping, like boots on wood. I crept to the door and looked through the keyhole. The man was standing in front of the hallway mirror, but now he wasn’t smiling. He was pressing his face against the glass, his expression twisted into a terrible, hungry grimace. He was trying to get out—not into our house, but into our world.

I realized then: he wasn’t a visitor. He was a prisoner, trapped on the other side of the mirror, and my children could see him because they were still young enough to believe in the impossible. And he wanted them.

I pulled back, terrified. The scraping grew louder, more frantic. I woke Alan, this time with a scream. He finally came to the door, just as the scraping stopped. When he opened it, the hallway was empty, but the mirror was cracked, a long fissure running from top to bottom.

We moved out of that house a week later. But the mirrors in our new home began to show odd reflections—a man in work boots standing just behind our own images, his smile a little too wide. And my daughters still talk to him, calling him ‘the man in the glass,’ telling me he says he’s waiting for the day the mirror breaks completely.

I’ve seen many strange things over the years, but nothing chills me like the thought of that man, trapped so close to our world, and the knowledge that he’s found a way to see us. I just hope he never finds a way to step through.