You ever hear something move in the mirror when you’re not? Like the reflection hesitates a second too long, or turns its head before you do?
I never believed in that stuff either. Until I watched my sister unravel over a mirror.
This story isn’t mine—it’s my sister Amanda’s. But after what happened, none of us talk about it anymore. So I’m writing it down, not to get it off my chest, but to make sure it doesn’t disappear. Because if you ever find yourself looking into a mirror too long, and something starts to look off… you’ll want to know how it started for her.
Amanda had just moved into an old house in Vermont. Big, creaky, full of charm and old secrets. She was a single mom, raising her daughter Lily, barely four years old. The house came with this antique mirror nailed to the wall in the upstairs hallway—oval-shaped, framed in iron vines that felt colder than they should when you touched them.
It started subtly. Amanda would pass the mirror on her way to the nursery and swear she saw Lily behind her—smiling, but not moving. When she turned, Lily would be asleep in bed.
She chalked it up to sleep deprivation. New place, old house, imagination on overdrive.
But then the mirror got… mean.
Reflections stopped matching reality. She’d see the hallway behind her burning—flames licking the ceiling, smoke billowing. She’d spin around, heart in her throat… and the house would be silent. Still. Safe.
It got worse. She started seeing Lily hurt in the reflection. Bruised. Eyes blacked out. Once, she swore she saw herself holding Lily’s tiny body, limp and wet with blood. She screamed so hard the neighbors came over. But of course, there was nothing. Nothing except her child, still alive, still giggling somewhere downstairs, unaware of the horror her mother was watching.
Amanda stopped sleeping. She covered the mirror with a sheet, but the fabric would be on the floor every morning. Taped it, nailed it, tried everything short of smashing it. But something inside her knew—if she broke it, whatever lived inside might come out.
One night, she called me in tears.
“She’s different in there,” she whispered.
“Who?”
“Lily. The one in the mirror. She watches me like… like she’s waiting for something.”
I asked if she needed help. She said no. Said it wasn’t about needing help anymore. It was about watching, not looking away. Because the moment she stopped watching, she felt like the real Lily would vanish—and only the one in the mirror would be left.
That was the last call I got from her.
The next morning, the police found Amanda sitting on the floor of the hallway, eyes wide open, whispering nonsense. Lily was asleep in her crib—unharmed, thank God. But Amanda hasn’t spoken since. Just stares into corners like she’s still watching something move that no one else can see.
The mirror?
Still there. Still untouched. The family that bought the house after Amanda left painted over it. But I heard from one of the workers that no matter how many layers they rolled on, by morning, the glass would be clear again. Like it refused to be forgotten.
Sometimes I wonder what Amanda really saw.
And sometimes, when I look into my own mirror at night, I wonder if it’s wondering about me too.
