by Timothy Jung (6th)

The Man in the Mirror

When I inherited the house at the edge of town, I thought solitude would be peaceful. The place had been empty for decades, its windows clouded with grime, its roof sagging like a tired sigh. I arrived just before dusk, the air heavy with the scent of rain and dust. The silence felt thick, almost alive.

Inside, the floorboards groaned under my weight. The wallpaper peeled in long, curling strips, and the air was cold enough to sting my lungs. I unpacked a single bag, lit a candle, and told myself I could handle one night alone.

The whispers began after midnight. At first, I thought it was the wind. But the sound came from inside the walls—soft, rhythmic, almost like breathing. I pressed my ear against the plaster, and the whispering stopped. When I stepped back, it started again, closer this time. My name wasn’t spoken, but I felt it—like the house knew I was listening.

I followed the sound through the hallway, the candle trembling in my hand. The whispers led me down the stairs, across the warped floorboards, and into a narrow corridor I hadn’t noticed before. The air grew colder with every step. The walls seemed to close in, the ceiling lowering until I had to duck.

At the end of the corridor stood a mirror. Its frame was carved from dark rotting wood, but the glass shimmered red, as if reflecting a world drenched in blood. The whispers pulsed from it, rising and falling like a heartbeat. I stepped closer, drawn by something I couldn’t name. My reflection was faint, distorted, rippling as though seen through water.

Then I saw him. A man stood behind me in the reflection—tall, drenched in blood, his face hidden in shadow. My breath caught. I spun around, the candle shaking, but the hallway was empty. Only silence.

When I turned back to the mirror, my reflection was gone. Instead, I saw myself lying on the floor inside the glass, eyes open, mouth slightly parted. The candle slipped from my hand and hit the ground, the flame sputtering out. The darkness pressed close. I felt a cold hand on my neck. Next, I felt a scrape. Finally, I felt nothing.