A Short Psychological Horror Story
By Masimba Junior Mutodza
The mirror had been in our family for generations an ornate, full-length antique with bronze framing and intricate carvings that time had all but erased. It had always hung quietly in the attic of my grandparents’ old house, hidden beneath a dusty black cloth like a forgotten relic. My grandmother used to warn us sternly and often never to touch it.
“Some reflections aren’t meant to be seen,” she would whisper with a faraway look in her eyes.
For years, I obeyed. But curiosity has a way of growing teeth.
One rainy afternoon, while cleaning out the attic, I found myself standing before the shrouded mirror. The air around it felt unnaturally still. I hesitated for a moment then reached out and peeled the cloth away. Dust swirled in the sunlight pouring through the cracked window as the mirror slowly revealed itself.
What I saw was not my reflection.
A face stared back, but it was not mine at least, not fully. The eyes were sunken, hollow as if drained of light. The skin had an unnatural pallor, stretched thin over prominent bones. Its mouth curled into a sinister grin that I was definitely not making.
I blinked. The figure in the mirror didn’t.
Panic surged through me. I turned around to check if someone was behind me nothing. Just silence and old furniture. I faced the mirror again. The figure tilted its head. I didn’t move.
Then it began to shift. Slowly, the expression grew darker. The lips parted, revealing jagged, yellowed teeth. And then, it spoke.
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It whispered my name.
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Every hair on my body stood on end. I tried to step back, but my legs locked. My breath turned shallow. A sharp crack echoed through the attic as the mirror shattered without warning, without touch. Shards of glass rained to the floor like a burst of frozen rain. I fell backward over a stack of old trunks, hitting the ground hard.
When I looked up, the mirror was gone. Not shattered gone. Only the dust-marked wall remained.
I scrambled downstairs, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. I reached the hallway and stood in front of the full-length mirror near the front door. My reflection looked normal. Calm. Familiar.
But as I turned away, I caught a flicker of movement. I looked back. My reflection was still smiling. But I wasn’t.
And its eyes were hollow.
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WRITTEN BY
Masimba Junior Mutodza
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