I’m Dr. Sarah Harper, a psychologist with over a decade of experience under my belt. I’ve always been fascinated by the human mind, its complexities, its resilience, and its fragility. I’ve seen patients with a myriad of issues, and I’ve always prided myself on my ability to remain detached, to treat each case with clinical precision. But this isn’t about my patients, or at least it didn’t start that way. It’s about me, about a terror that’s difficult to put into words, a terror that has shaken me to my core. It all started with a young woman named Emily. Emily was different from my other patients. She was young, vibrant, full of life, but there was a fear in her eyes that I couldn’t ignore. A fear that, in retrospect, I didn’t understand as well as I thought I did.
“Dr. Harper,” Emily’s voice had trembled during our first session, “it’s my reflection… it’s not… me.”
I remember raising an eyebrow, “What do you mean, Emily?”
She took a deep breath, “I mean… she doesn’t copy me. She… she watches me. Smiles at me when I’m not smiling. And her eyes… they’re cold, empty…“
The stark terror in Emily’s eyes had given me a chill, but I brushed it off. After all, I was a psychologist. My job was to find the rationale in the irrational, to bring sense to the senseless.
“Sounds like depersonalization disorder,” I had reasoned, scribbling down notes. “We can work through this, Emily.” But even as I said it, a chill ran down my spine. There was something in Emily’s voice, a raw terror that I couldn’t ignore. I shook off the feeling, but it lingered, a dark premonition.
But we didn’t.
Emily stopped coming to our sessions. I should have reached out, should have checked on her sooner. But I didn’t. And then, one day, I found myself standing outside her apartment, the wail of police sirens echoing in my ears.
“She’s… she’s dead,” Officer Daniels, a burly man with a soft voice, told me. “Seems she shattered every mirror in her apartment before… well, before she did it.”
Emily’s death shook me. I couldn’t help but feel responsible. I should have done more. I was her psychologist, wasn’t I? As I stood there, the chilling memory of Emily’s terrified face during our sessions came rushing back. I remembered her words, her fear. Little did I know, I was about to experience the same terror.
But then, things started happening. Things I can’t explain. The first time I saw her… my own reflection… it was a week after Emily’s death. I was washing my hands in the office restroom when I looked up into the mirror.
I froze. There I was, my brown hair tied back in a messy bun, my glasses perched precariously on the bridge of my nose. But my eyes, usually warm and inviting, were cold and distant in the reflection. And the smirk on my face was a grotesque parody of my usual smile. But something was horribly wrong. My reflection… she was smiling. It wasn’t a warm, comforting smile. It was a cold, cruel smirk that twisted her face into a grotesque mask of delight. And her eyes… they were voids, empty chasms that seemed to suck away all warmth and light.
I stumbled back, heart pounding. I blinked, shook my head, and looked again. The reflection was normal, mirroring my terrified expression perfectly. I let out a breath, attributing the earlier sight to stress, grief, fatigue.
But the figure in the mirror kept returning. And each time, she seemed more real, more tangible. At times, I could almost hear her laughter, a cold, hollow sound that echoed in my mind. I could see her reaching out, her fingers inches away from the glass, as if ready to break through.
Days turned into weeks, and each time I saw my reflection, she was there. Not always, not predictably, but often enough to make my heart race every time I passed a mirror or a reflective window. Her cruel smirk, her empty eyes, they haunted me. And then, things started to change. I would find objects in my house moved, my research notes scattered. Once, I woke up to find my bedroom mirror shattered, shards of glass scattered across the floor. Each time, my reflection would just smirk, as if she was behind it all.
One day, while sipping my morning coffee, time seemed to slow down. The room fell into an eerie silence, and my senses heightened. As I raised the cup to my lips, the reflection in the kitchen window caught my eye. A sudden jolt of fear surged through my veins, causing my hand to tremble. The coffee cup slipped from my grasp, the scalding liquid splattering across the counter. I winced in pain, but my attention remained fixated on the chilling image in the reflection. The seconds stretched into an eternity as the smirk on my doppelgänger’s face seemed to widen, as if mocking my fear and torment. That night, I had a nightmare. I was trapped in a house of mirrors, each one showing not my reflection, but hers. She was everywhere, smirking, watching. I woke up in a cold sweat, her image still burned into my mind.
“Sarah,” My friend and colleague, Dr. Helen Brown, had noticed my growing distraction, “You’ve been… off lately. Is everything alright?”
I managed a weak smile, “Just a bit stressed, Helen.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” She asked, her gaze filled with concern.
I hesitated, my gaze drifting to the mirror on the wall. As if on cue, my reflection smirked back at me. How could I explain it? Would she even believe me? Or would she think I was losing my mind? Yet, I couldn’t bear it alone any longer. “It’s… it’s my reflection, Helen. It’s not me.”
Helen stared at me, her eyes wide. “What do you mean?”
“It’s like… she has a mind of her own. And her eyes… they’re cold, empty…“
Helen looked at me for a long moment, “Sarah, it sounds like you’re describing Emily’s symptoms.”
I nodded, “Yes, it’s exactly like that. And I don’t know what to do.”
Over the next few weeks, my life spiralled into chaos. I couldn’t focus on my work. I avoided mirrors and reflective surfaces. I felt constantly watched, constantly under scrutiny. The figure was always there, a silent observer, a dark shadow. I was living in a constant state of paranoia and fear. I felt like I was losing my mind.
In my desperation, I started researching. Anything and everything that might explain what was happening. I stumbled upon old legends of doppelgängers and evil spirits that could mimic human form. I read about haunted mirrors and cursed objects. Each story sent a fresh wave of terror through me, making my heart pound and my palms sweat. I dug into medical journals, looking for similar cases. I poured over old books on psychology and folklore, on superstition and the occult. I was grasping at straws, trying to understand, to find a way out of the nightmare.
One night, after hours of fruitless research, I was about to shut down my computer when I heard a soft, almost imperceptible noise coming from the bathroom. The room was dark, and the screen was the only source of light. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. The house was supposed to be empty. I got up, my body stiff with fear, and slowly made my way towards the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, and a sliver of light was seeping out. I pushed the door open, my breath hitching in my throat. The bathroom was empty. I let out a sigh of relief, but as I turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of her in the mirror. Her smirk, her cold eyes. I felt a shiver run down my spine. But this time, I didn’t look away. I couldn’t live like this, couldn’t continue in fear.
“Who are you?” I asked my reflection, my voice trembling.
Her lips curled into a wider smirk, but she didn’t respond. I continued to stare at her, my heart pounding in my chest.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. But as I said it, the lights in my apartment flickered, casting long, ominous shadows on the walls. A cold wind swept through the room, making me shiver. Was it just my imagination, or was she growing stronger?
But she just continued to stare, her cold eyes boring into mine.
I had stopped working, stopped seeing my friends. I spent my days holed up in my apartment, researching, watching, waiting. I started to see her in my dreams, her cold, cruel smirk haunting my every moment. I would wake up in the middle of the night, her face etched into my mind. My once orderly life had turned into a realm of fear and uncertainty. The figure in the mirror had become my constant companion, always watching, always waiting.
One evening, as I was staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I finally broke. The reflection moved, her hand reaching out from the mirror, fingertips grazing the glass. I stumbled back in horror, my heart pounding in my chest.
“Enough!” I shouted, my voice echoing in the small bathroom. “What do you want from me?”
The figure simply smirked, her cold eyes reflecting no emotion.
“I won’t let you ruin my life,” I continued, my voice trembling. “I won’t let you win.”
The figure remained silent, but her smirk seemed to grow wider.
Suddenly, a thought struck me. Could this be me? A projection of my guilt, my fear, my regret? Or was it something else, something more sinister? The uncertainty gnawed at me, keeping me awake at night. Emily’s death had affected me more deeply than I had realised. I was projecting my emotions onto my reflection, giving them form, giving them power.
“I’m sorry, Emily,” I whispered, tears welling up in my eyes. “I should have done more. I should have helped you.”
The figure in the mirror continued to stare, but her smirk seemed to fade. Her eyes seemed a bit less cold. I didn’t know if it was real or just my imagination, but it gave me hope.
In the days that followed, I sought help. I reached out to a psychologist, a colleague I trusted. I told her everything, from Emily to my reflection. She listened, didn’t judge, didn’t dismiss my fears. We began to work through my guilt, my fear.
The figure in the mirror didn’t disappear overnight. She was there, always watching. But as I worked through my feelings, her presence seemed less ominous, less menacing.
Today, I still see her, my reflection with her cruel smile and cold eyes. But she no longer scares me. I’ve come to understand her, to understand myself. She is a part of me, a part I had tried to ignore, to suppress. But not anymore. Yet, every time I look in the mirror, I can’t shake off the feeling of dread. Is she really just a part of me, or is she something more? Something darker?
I’m Dr. Sarah Harper, a psychologist. And this is my story, a story of fear, guilt, and self-discovery. A story of how I faced my own reflection and survived… or at least, how I hope I have.