A Short Story by Greyson Welles
It started with the mirror in the upstairs hallway.
Not the creaking stairs. Not the strange clicks in the wall.
Not the way his keys kept disappearing, only to reappear somewhere absurd — once in the freezer, once inside a shoe.
No, it was the mirror.
Because it blinked.
Not often. Just once.
A fast, involuntary twitch.
But enough for Thomas to freeze in his socks and stare.
His own reflection had blinked — and he hadn’t.
He tried to rationalize it.
Old glass. Flickering light.
Maybe he’d blinked and not realized it.
But the more he watched, the more he noticed.
That version of himself in the mirror — it didn’t quite follow.
Its smiles lasted too long.
Its posture was straighter.
It looked like him, yes… but it wasn’t him.
By the fourth day, Thomas had stopped brushing his teeth in front of it.
He’d angle himself sideways, avoid eye contact.
By the seventh, he covered it with a towel.
But mirrors have a way of multiplying.
There was one in the bedroom.
One in the bathroom.
One in the rearview mirror of his car.
And in all of them, his reflection started… lagging.
A fraction of a second, like a buffering screen.
It would copy him eventually, but not exactly — like it was watching first, then deciding what to do.
He started leaving notes for himself.
Little reminders taped to the mirror:
- You are Thomas.
- Your reflection is not real.
- Do not believe him.
The reflection would read them too.
It would tilt its head slightly, as if offended.
Then smile.
Always that same smile.
It escalated the night he caught it moving after he’d walked away.
He turned back, suddenly — and the reflection was still looking at him.
Not toward him. At him.
Like he was in the glass now.
Like it was the one standing in the hallway.
He ran.
That night, he smashed every mirror in the house.
Glass in the sink. On the stairs. Glittering beneath moonlight like tiny watching eyes.
He felt better.
Until morning.
When he opened his phone’s selfie camera by accident.
And it was smiling again.
Just a fraction of a second… before he was.
✍️ Want More?
This is the kind of story that keeps me up at night.
It’s short. Quiet. But wrong in just the right ways.
I write fiction like this every day — psychological thrillers that twist memory, perception, and identity.
Want another one?
👉 Download The Forgotten Passenger — a free psychological short story
And don’t worry — the man in the mirror can’t follow you through email.
I think.