The Mirror's Secret
It began with a mirror I found at a secondhand store shop — a wonderful piece with a fancy gold edge. The businessperson cautioned me, "This mirror reflects something other than your picture." I dismissed it.
That evening, as I set the mirror in my room, I saw something odd. My appearance wasn't altogether mine. It grinned when I didn't. It flickered when I gazed.
At 3 a.m., I awakened to black out murmurs. The sound came from the mirror. My appearance wasn't there, yet I saw a dim figure remaining behind me. Twirling around, the room was unfilled.
The murmurs became stronger, transforming into throaty shouts. The figure got out of the mirror — a tall, shadowy outline with empty eyes. "You brought me back," it murmured.
I was unable to move, couldn't shout. The last thing I recollect is its frosty hand contacting my face. At the point when I awakened, the mirror was broken, and composed on the wall in the shards was single word: Run.
Presently, every intelligent surface shows that figure, watching me. Pausing.
