The trembling starts subtly, a low vibration that rattles the frame and sends a chill through my spine. I lie awake, staring at the glass, unsure if it’s the wind or my imagination playing tricks. But as the seconds pass, the shaking grows more insistent, the mirror seeming to pulse with a life of its own. My breath catches as silence settles moments later, leaving only the echo of my racing heartbeat.
I scramble out of bed, my pulse pounding in my ears. The marks are unmistakable: five long, slender prints pressing outward, smearing the glass from within. I grab a cloth and wipe the mirror clean, desperate to erase any sign of the haunting phenomenon. As I turn away, the room seems to grow colder, the air thick with anticipation.
My reflection lingers in the glass, smiling back at me with an expression I do not recognize. Panic grips me as I realize I am not smiling—my reflection is no longer my own. The whisper returns, closer now, soft and pleading: "Don’t erase me." The words curl around my ears, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
A new chill settles over my skin, colder than the night air. I dare not move, rooted to the spot by invisible hands. The mirror, now completely dark, seems to swallow all sound, all light, all hope. A final sentence cuts through the silence, delivered in a voice that is both mine and not: "You sleep in my room now."
I realize with growing horror that I am no longer in my room—at least, not as I once was. The world on the other side of the glass is cold and endless, filled with reflections that smile without warmth. I reach out, but my hand meets glass, and I see finger marks pressed from the inside, desperate for release.
No one else will notice the change, not at first. The mirror is quiet now, content with its captive. But every night at 3:12 a.m., it waits, hungry for another soul to claim, its surface shimmering with the promise of another midnight visitor.
