Moving into my first apartment was a rite of passage. Nestled on the outskirts of town, it had an old-world charm. Creaky floorboards, ornate doorknobs, and bay windows. Everything was perfect, except for one thing: a tiny, indistinct smudge on the living room mirror.
Blur… Speck… Obscure…
I tried everything to clean it. Vinegar, newspaper, even a dash of toothpaste. But no matter how hard I scrubbed, the smudge remained.
Days turned to weeks. The smudge began to grow. Slowly. Almost imperceptibly.
Expand… Stretch… Swell…
One evening, after a long shower, I stepped out and saw the bathroom mirror had fogged up. But in its center was a clear spot, identical to the smudge in the living room. As I approached, I saw something that sent shivers down my spine.
A face. Not mine.
It was contorted in pain, its eyes hollow with sorrow. And then, just as quickly, it was gone.
Fade… Dissipate… Evaporate…
I called the landlord. He listened, eyebrows raised, and then chuckled.
“It’s an old building,” he said. “Things settle. Mirrors get tarnished. Don’t let your imagination get the best of you.”
But it wasn’t my imagination.
The smudge continued to grow, appearing on other reflective surfaces: the kitchen window, the toaster, even the screen of my turned-off TV.
Shift… Creep… Lurk…
One night, I was jolted awake by a cold breeze. The room was bathed in pale moonlight. My heart raced as I saw the source of the chill: the window was open. I was sure I’d locked it.
And there it was, the smudge, larger than ever on the windowpane. But this time, it wasn’t stationary. It moved, swirling, forming a silhouette.
A figure.
Twist… Morph… Shape…
I mustered the courage to approach, my reflection becoming clearer as I neared. But it wasn’t just my reflection.
Another face emerged, twisted in agony, its mouth opening in a silent scream. I watched in horror as dozens of faces appeared, each more tormented than the last, merging and swirling in a macabre dance.
Scream… Wail… Moan…
Backing away, I bumped into another mirror. The faces were there too, reaching out, their expressions a mix of anguish and rage.
Suddenly, a cold hand gripped my shoulder. I spun around, coming face-to-face with the original, sorrowful eyes from the bathroom mirror.
It spoke, its voice a raspy whisper, “We are the forgotten, trapped in reflections, bound by regret. And now, you’ve seen us.”
Petrify… Paralyze… Stiffen…
The next morning, the sun’s rays filtering through the curtains felt like a lifeline. The smudges were gone, and so were the faces. I fled that apartment, leaving most of my belongings behind.
I found a new place, modern, without any of the old-world charm. No bay windows, no ornate doorknobs, and definitely no mirrors.
Months passed. Life returned to some semblance of normality. Until one day, while video calling a friend, I noticed it.
A tiny, indistinct smudge on my phone screen.
And as I looked closer, a pair of sorrowful eyes met mine.
Return… Repeat… Resurface…