This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Holiday-Peanut-7189 on 2024-11-18 01:58:12+00:00.

I’ve always had this subtle unease around mirrors. Not enough to call it a fear—just a feeling, like they were showing me a little more than I wanted to see. I never thought much of it until last month, after my roommate Evan went missing.

Evan and I weren’t best friends or anything, but he was a good guy. Reliable. The kind of person you’d notice missing right away because he was always there—in the kitchen making tea, playing music in his room, calling out, “You need anything?” whenever he went to the store.

One morning, he was gone.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. He’d mentioned being stressed with work and needing some space. But then hours turned into days. His bed was made. His keys, wallet, and phone were still on the counter. Even the mug of tea he’d brewed the night before was sitting cold and untouched in the sink.

The police came, asked their questions, and left without much to say.

“People leave,” the officer said, shrugging like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Sometimes there’s no reason.”

But Evan wouldn’t have left. Not like that.

For the first week, the apartment felt unbearable. It wasn’t just the silence—it was the emptiness. Without Evan’s presence, the place felt massive and hollow, like a space too big for me alone. I started leaving lights on in every room, the TV playing softly in the background. It helped, at least until I noticed the mirror.

There’s this little mirror in the hallway, cheap and barely big enough to check your hair in. I’d walked past it a thousand times without ever noticing it. But one night, I glanced at it as I walked by and saw something that stopped me cold.

My reflection didn’t move.

I’d turned my head toward the living room, but my reflection stayed perfectly still, staring straight ahead. It was just a split second, but it was enough to send a chill down my spine.

I stopped, turned back, and leaned in closer. My reflection stared back, moving as it should, every detail perfectly normal. I laughed at myself, brushing it off as exhaustion or maybe some trick of the light.

But I couldn’t shake it.

The next time it happened, I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom. I looked up at the mirror, and my reflection… smiled at me.

I wasn’t smiling.

The grin was wide and wrong, stretching just a little too far. My heart jumped into my throat. I dropped the toothbrush, stumbled back, and when I looked again, everything was fine. Normal. Just my tired face staring back at me.

That’s when I started seeing it everywhere—windows, darkened TV screens, even the surface of a mug when the light hit it just right. I’d catch flashes of myself smiling when I wasn’t, tilting my head when I was perfectly still.

And then the dreams started.

Almost every night, I’d see Evan. He’d be sitting on the couch in the living room, his back to me. His head would tilt slightly to the side, as if he were listening to something just out of reach.

“Evan?” I’d whisper, though my throat always felt tight and dry in the dream.

He would turn, slowly, and I’d wish he hadn’t.

It looked like Evan, but his face was off. His skin was too pale, his features stretched like they’d been pulled too tight over his skull. His eyes were the worst—empty and wide, staring at me without really seeing me.

“They’re watching,” he said one night, his voice flat and hollow. “Through the glass. Don’t trust what you see.”

I woke up drenched in sweat, his voice still echoing in my ears.

After that, I couldn’t handle the mirrors anymore. I threw blankets and towels over all of them, anything to keep from seeing my own face. But it didn’t help. I’d still catch glimpses out of the corner of my eye—reflections where they shouldn’t have been. Always watching.

A few nights ago, I found a note tucked under my bedroom door.

Stop looking. It’s not you.

It was written in my handwriting.

That night, I heard noises coming from Evan’s room. It started as soft scratching, like nails on wood, and grew louder until it sounded like something was being dragged across the walls.

“Evan?” I called out, my voice barely a whisper.

The scratching stopped.

Then came the tapping—slow, deliberate, and rhythmic. It sent shivers through me, but I couldn’t stop myself. I crossed the hall to his door and pressed my ear to it.

The tapping grew louder, more frantic, until it sounded like fists pounding on the walls. I yanked the door open, and everything went silent.

The room was empty.

But the mirror above his dresser was uncovered.

I stepped closer, my breath catching in my throat. At first, everything looked normal—just the room reflected back at me. But then I realized: I wasn’t in the reflection.

The dresser, the bed, the window—it was all there. But I wasn’t.

I spun around, panic surging through me, and the door slammed shut.

When I turned back to the mirror, my reflection was there again. Only it wasn’t me.

It stepped closer to the glass, its movements slow and deliberate. Its head tilted slightly, and its lips curled into a wide, unnatural grin.

“You’re on the wrong side,” it said, its voice soft and amused.

This morning, I woke up in Evan’s room.

The mirror is gone.

And I can’t find the door.