They say reflections are harmless.
Mimics. Nothing more.
But when mine stepped out of the mirror, barefoot and blinking like it had just been born, I realized something Laurel House had been trying to teach me since the beginning:
Some roles want to be real.
And this one had waited long enough.
---
It didn't speak. Not at first. It just watched me.
Studied how I moved. Matched my breathing. Cocked its head with too-perfect mimicry. It was me, yes—but sharper. Cleaner. A version sculpted not by experience, but by expectation.
It wasn't pretending to be me.
It was replacing me.
---
I backed out of the hallway slowly, one step at a time. It didn't follow. Just turned back to the mirror, touching its surface with something like reverence.
Like sorrow.
Then it smiled.
> Not at me. At itself.
As if it liked being free.
---
I slammed the bedroom door. Locked it. Stuffed towels under the crack. Drew every curtain. I didn't sleep.
I didn't even blink.
When morning came, the mirror outside my door was gone.
In its place was a folded costume.
A school uniform.
My size.
Identical to the one the reflection had worn.
A note was pinned to the lapel:
> Rehearsals resume at midnight. The understudy has taken the stage.
---
I didn't go downstairs. I didn't speak to Mom.
Because I knew it wasn't her anymore.
She walked the house like it was a stage, gliding from room to room. Turning lights off. Counting. Always counting.
And every mirror she passed? It stayed fogged for a moment longer.
As if something was still inside, watching.
Not her reflection.
Just a castmate.
Waiting for their line.
---
The clocks stopped that afternoon.
Every one.
At 12:47 PM.
Even the ones with no batteries.
That's when the laughter started.
Faint.
Childlike.
Coming from behind the mirrors.
---
I tried to leave.
Front door: nailed shut.
Windows: reflected other rooms now, not the outside.
Phone: no dial tone. Just static that whispered "Thirteen" on a loop.
The house had sealed itself.
Because it didn't need an audience anymore.
Only actors.
---
At midnight, the power went out.
Not violently. Elegantly.
Every bulb faded like the curtain falling on the first act.
And then came the stage lights.
Soft amber glows, illuminating corners of rooms I'd never noticed before.
Each one highlighting… a version of me.
Eating dinner.
Reading by the fire.
Tucking a blanket around a shape I couldn't see.
All of them perfect.
All of them wrong.
---
I screamed. Grabbed the flashlight. Ran.
The hallways twisted.
Every turn brought me to the mirror room.
It wasn't just one room anymore.
It was all of them.
A theater of infinite glass.
Every panel showing a scene I'd never lived.
But might have.
Could have.
Would have.
If I'd let go.
If I'd given in.
---
Then I saw it.
My reflection.
Center stage.
Wearing the school uniform.
Smiling to a crowd I couldn't see.
It stepped forward. Reached for the spotlight.
Spoke my name.
And the house echoed it back.
Over and over.
Until it didn't sound like my name anymore.
It sounded like a role.
A part to be played.
By anyone.
By everyone.
---
The walls began to tremble.
Glass cracked.
But the mirror didn't break.
It just expanded.
Swallowed the door.
Swallowed the hallway.
Reflected a world where I no longer existed.
Only the character did.
And behind the stage glass, I watched it live my life.
Perfectly.
While I faded.
Forgot.
Rehearsed.