Mike lived alone in a small suburban house in Maine. It was peaceful, quiet—exactly what he needed after the messy divorce. He spent most of his time restoring old mirrors, a hobby he'd picked up years ago at an antique fair.
One morning, while visiting a roadside estate sale, he found a peculiar mirror.
It was oval, wrapped in a dusty black cloth. The old woman selling it refused to tell him where it came from.
"It's not for you," she said.
He bought it anyway.
When he brought it home and unwrapped it, the surface was completely spotless—no dust, no cracks, no smudges. But the frame was covered in faint, etched writing… in Latin.
He didn't speak Latin. He didn't care.
He hung the mirror in his bedroom.
That night, he saw something strange.
As he walked past the mirror to turn off the light, his reflection didn't move in sync.
It lagged—just for a split second.
He froze, stared. His reflection stared back.
Maybe he was tired.
But it kept happening.
The next night, the reflection smiled before he did.
On the third night, it waved.
He never waved.
He tried moving the mirror to the attic, but the next morning it was back on his bedroom wall—hung neatly, as if it had never been touched.
He smashed it with a hammer.
It didn't break.
He burned it.
The flames avoided the glass, curling around it like smoke repelled by wind.
He stopped sleeping.
The reflection began appearing in other mirrors around the house. The bathroom. The hallway.
Sometimes… he saw it standing behind him.
Smiling.
One night, he decided to confront it.
He stood in front of the bedroom mirror and said aloud, "What do you want?"
His reflection blinked.
And then said, "Let me out."
He stepped back in horror.
"I'm not you," the reflection whispered. "I never was."
Mike ran. He grabbed his keys, headed for the door—
But it was locked. Every window. Every exit.
When he looked at the mirror again…
He was inside it.
Banging on the glass.
And something else, something wearing his face, walked away.
Free.