Her skin prickles. She sets the photo down, this time beneath the candlelight, then backs up slowly, breath shallow.
The flames flicker. Dance. Then still, as if something exhaled.
Her chest tightens. She turns toward the hallway.
The mirror at the end of it is empty.
Not her reflection. Not the wrong one.
Nothing at all.
And then…
Knock!
Not on the front door.
Not on the windows.
From inside the walls.
Three deliberate thuds.
And a fourth, softer. Like fingertips.
She runs. Back to the kitchen. To the phone.
No service.
No signal.
No surprise.
She grabs the photo again, meaning to burn it.
But this time, when she looks down—
The girl in the picture is no longer alone.
There are hands on her.
Long. Too many fingers. Clutching her ribs. Her neck.
Something crawling over her like possession.
And her face?
Still smiling.
Still hers.
She puts the photo down, but it doesn’t leave her hands.
Her fingers twitch. Her palm pulses.
She tries to set it back on the table,
but the wood feels foreign. Slick. Wrong.
That’s when the cabin goes quiet.
Not peaceful.
Vacuumed.
Like the storm muted itself to listen.
She turns slowly.
The candles flicker in unison, then go out—one by one.
A heartbeat between each.
She’s left in the dark.
Except for the glow of the hallway mirror.
Not her, anymore.
But it.
The other her.
Smiling now, wide and toothy.
And moving.
A step forward.
Another.
But the real her hasn’t moved.
She’s frozen by the table. Still holding the picture.
She backs away, heart hammering, until she bumps the back door,
cold glass against her spine.
Something brushes her calf. She jumps.
Looks down.
Bare floor.
No one there.
But the mirror version…
she’s right in front of it now.
So close to the edge she could climb out.
And maybe she already is.
Because the photograph in her hands is warm again.
Too warm.
And now wet.
She pulls it away from her chest.
There are fingerprints on the glass.
From the inside.
She drops the photograph.
It hits the floor with a wet slap, glass shattering across the boards like ice breaking over still water.
But it doesn’t scatter.
The shards twist. Reassemble.
Form something else.
A grin.
She stumbles backward, nearly slipping.
But a hand catches her wrist.
Not her own.
She gasps, jerking around—
No one’s there.
But the grip remains.
Fingers like static, tightening, pulling her back toward the hallway.
Toward the mirror.
And now, the reflection isn’t just mimicking her.
It’s beckoning.
Nails drag down the inside of the glass.
Blood smears from the mouth in the image—her mouth—though she hasn’t spoken.
Not out loud.
But she’s screaming in her head.
She claws for the door. Any door.
Twisting knobs. Locking them behind her.
She flees to the bathroom. Shuts herself inside.
No mirror. No windows.
She breathes.
One. Two. Three.
And then…
From the hallway:
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Not at the door.
On the wall.
Where the photo had been.
A voice slithers through the gap beneath the bathroom door.
“I like it better off the wall.”
She doesn’t respond. She can’t.
“Don’t be scared,” the voice says, low and syrup-slick. “I just want your face.”
She backs into the tub, gripping the curtain like it’s holy.
The faucet drips.
Drip. Drip.
Until…
Splash.
Something’s in the tub with her.
She screams, tearing the curtain away.
But it’s her own reflection again.
Dripping. Smiling.
Climbing out of the water.
A grotesque rebirth.
Its eyes are hollow.
Its voice is hers, but wrong.
“I remember now,” it whispers.
“You didn’t take the photo.”
“You posed.”
She doesn’t remember screaming.
Doesn’t remember her knees slamming the floor.
Only the cold, soaking into her bones as the thing wears her face.
As it climbs free.
She watches from somewhere else now.
Somewhere behind her own eyes.
She can still see, but can’t blink.
Can’t scream.
She’s the reflection now.
A smear on the glass.
And the thing that used to be her?
It straightens.
Cracks its neck.
Stretches like trying on a new coat.
Then smiles.
“Better,” it says. “Tighter fit than the last one.”
It tilts its head toward the bathroom mirror…
Winks.
And walks out.
Morning comes quietly.
Birdsong. Dripping trees.
A single light still on in the cabin.
She—it—stands outside, sipping the untouched wine.
When the car pulls up the gravel drive, a woman steps out.
The therapist.
She waves, clipboard in hand.
“Good morning! How was the reconnection?”
The thing in her skin smiles.
“Revealing.”
The therapist laughs. “You look better already. I told you this place works wonders.”
The thing nods, running a hand through her hair.
In the window, the hallway mirror flashes as the door closes behind them.
For just a second—
If someone looked closely—
They’d swear the girl in the reflection… blinked.
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