MidnightScreams

Full Story:

[Excerpt from the private journal of Elias Thatcher, discovered in an abandoned residence, May 2024.]

Entry 1

I have always feared mirrors.

Not in the childish sense, not because I expect a monster to leap from the glass, but because something within them never feels quite right. My reflection holds my gaze a moment too long, my eyes seem darker, and my movements—imperceptibly delayed. I have spent my entire life avoiding them, covering them, ensuring that whatever lingers within cannot find me.

Until today.

Today, I stood before the mirror in my bedroom for the first time in years. I do not know why. Some unseen force pulled me toward it. My reflection was there, as it should be. And yet—I swear, something changed. A flicker at the edge of my vision. A tilt of the head too slow, too deliberate. A smile I did not make.

I must be imagining it.

Entry 5

It has been days since I first looked into the mirror. I cannot stop. Every morning, every night, I find myself drawn to it, compelled to stare, searching for what feels wrong.

I am beginning to see it.

My reflection’s movements are wrong. It mimics me, yes, but with the hesitation of an actor unsure of their role. Today, when I lifted my right hand, it did too—but too late. A second too late.

I do not know if I am losing my mind or if something terrible is happening.

Entry 10

It spoke to me.

God help me, my reflection spoke to me.

It did not move its lips. The voice came from inside my skull, a whisper slithering through my thoughts like oil. It called my name. It told me to stay a little longer, to look a little closer.

I cannot. I must not.

I have covered the mirrors again. But I can still feel it watching me.

Entry 14

I made a mistake.

I smashed the mirror in my bedroom. The shards scattered, reflecting a thousand tiny versions of myself—but they did not move in unison. Some remained still, staring, even as I turned away.

One of them smiled.


And then they crawled from their reflections.

Entry 17

The mirrors are not portals.

They are prisons.

They do not show our reflections; they show the things that wear our faces, waiting, hungering for the moment we break the glass. I have freed something, something that should never have been allowed to leave.

It follows me now. In the windows, in polished surfaces, in puddles of rain. It does not mimic me anymore.

It simply watches.

Final Entry

I cannot run. I cannot hide. There is no escape from your own reflection.

I have seen what happens when it reaches through. I have seen what it does. I will not let it take me.

To whoever finds this journal, do not look into the mirrors.

Do not let them see you.

[End of journal. Elias Thatcher was never found. His residence remained untouched, save for one thing: every reflective surface had been shattered, save for a single standing mirror in the bedroom. The glass was wrong. Too dark. Too deep. And when the investigators stood before it—they saw nothing staring back.]