The village of Eilford had one rule: no mirrors. There were no explanations. No history books. Just cold stares and doors that shut fast whenever someone asked.
Adrik, a curious traveler, arrived with the arrogance of the modern world. He'd heard the warnings but dismissed them as superstition. Among his luggage was a full-length antique mirror he'd bought from an old estate sale—ornate, cracked at the edges, and oddly heavy for its size.
He set it in the small cottage he rented, propped up against the wall opposite the bed. That first night, he awoke at 3:07 a.m. to the sound of soft footsteps—but the house was empty. Just shadows and the mirror, silently staring back.
The second night, the reflection lingered one second too long after he moved.
The third night, it smiled.
Adrik sat frozen. His face was slack, but the reflection beamed widely, its eyes glassy and gleaming with something not human. The smile vanished as quickly as it came, and the mirror returned to perfect mimicry.
He covered the mirror with a cloth the next day. That night, the cloth was on the floor, and the reflection was already standing while he lay in bed.
By the fifth night, Adrik couldn't move—paralyzed by some unseen force. The reflection now lived its own life. It strolled through the room, touching the walls, staring out the window, sometimes whispering into the darkness.
At dawn, the mirror was empty. His reflection was gone. Adrik's bed was cold. No sign of a struggle. Only the faint outline of two bare feet burned into the wooden floor facing the mirror.
The villagers said nothing. Only one child dared peek through the window of the abandoned house later that week.
Inside stood the mirror.
And in it, someone was watching her.