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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/NightmareBree98 on 2025-10-25 00:21:13+00:00.

I never believed in those stories they tell up in the Appalachian Mountains.

Growing up, I always figured the tales were made up — a way to scare off tourists or keep kids from wandering too far into the woods after dark. Every town has its ghost stories. But the hollers here… they hold on to things.

Last week, I stopped laughing at those stories.

It started when I came up to my family’s old hunting cabin for a few days. Just me and my dog, Rex. He’s a tough old coonhound, raised in the woods, not scared of thunder or bears or much of anything.

That first night, though, he was off. Wouldn’t stop pacing the hallway. Kept growling low under his breath whenever he looked toward my bedroom.

I tried coaxing him in with treats, even whistled — but he planted himself in the living room, hackles up, staring at that dark hallway like something was standing there watching us.

I should’ve taken the hint.

Sometime after midnight, I laid in bed staring at that long mirror by the window. It had always been there — an old, warped thing my granddad brought from a church sale years ago. The glass had a faint green tint, and if you looked at it too long, your reflection seemed to move just a half-second too slow.

That night, I could’ve sworn I saw someone in it.

A woman.

She was standing right beside my bed, just behind my shoulder. Pale as ash, her black hair matted and knotted, hanging over her face. She wore a thin, faded blue nightgown that swayed even though the air in the room was still.

I blinked, sat up — and she was gone. Just me, Rex growling somewhere down the hall, and that mirror.

I told myself I was tired, maybe dreaming with my eyes open. I don’t even remember falling asleep.

When I woke again, it was 2:21 in the morning. The room was ice-cold — so cold I could see my breath drift in front of my face.

That made no sense. It was mid-summer, the kind of muggy heat that sticks to your skin even after sunset.

Something felt wrong. The quiet was heavy — like the woods outside were holding their breath.

And then I looked at the mirror again.

That was my mistake.

She was there. Closer this time, filling the glass.

Her face… God. Half of it was gone. There was a bullet wound just above her left eye, still fresh, dark blood trickling down her cheek and dripping into her gown. Her mouth hung open like she was trying to say something, but no sound came.

I didn’t wait to see more. I jumped out of bed, yanked on my boots, and sprinted down the hallway. Rex was already at the door whining, tail between his legs. I grabbed him, bolted outside, and didn’t stop running until I reached my truck.

When I looked back, the cabin was dark — except for the window in my bedroom. The light flickered on and off.

And in between the flashes, I could see her silhouette. Standing there. Waving at me.

I sat in that truck until the sun started to rise, engine idling, every instinct in me screaming to drive away and never come back.

But something kept pulling me. Curiosity, maybe. Stubbornness. When the daylight finally burned through the mist, I drove back up the dirt road.

The cabin looked different in the morning — smaller, quieter, almost innocent. Rex stayed in the truck, whining as I walked up the porch steps.

Inside, everything was still. My bed was unmade, the air stale and damp like the fire had gone out days ago. And the mirror…

The mirror was cracked.

A long, jagged line running straight through the middle — from where her left eye had been.

But what froze me wasn’t the crack. It was what was written across the glass.

Someone — or something — had traced words into the condensation. The letters were uneven, smeared like they’d been drawn with a fingertip.

“Don’t forget me…”

Below that, pressed faintly into the dust along the frame, were fingerprints — small, delicate ones — and a dark red smudge where her hand might’ve rested.

I backed away, heart pounding, grabbed Rex, and drove straight down the mountain without looking back.

I haven’t told anyone about this until now. But sometimes, when I check my rearview mirror driving home at night… I swear I catch a glimpse of blue fabric moving in the reflection, just behind me, in the dark of the back seat.