Trapped
I had always hated my reflection.
Not in the usual way. Not the way you might hate a photograph or the way you stare at yourself after a bad haircut. I hated it because it felt alive. And when I moved, it sometimes didn’t.
It started the night I moved into apartment 4B. The building was cheap, the kind of place where neighbors left doors unlocked and hallways smelled of mildew. I liked it for that—no security cameras, no nosy landlady. But the mirror in the bedroom was old, ornate, standing tall against the wall. I should have removed it.
The first night, I brushed my teeth and caught a flicker behind me. A shadow. I whipped around. Nothing. The room was empty.
I looked back at the mirror. My reflection smiled.
I wasn’t smiling.
The Pressure
I lay awake, feeling it – something pressing against my back, heavy, warm, smelling faintly of rot. Sometimes, I could hear scraping, soft and patient, under the bed. I never looked. Not at first. But the curiosity gnawed at me until I couldn’t resist.
Slowly, I lowered my head and peered under the bed.
Two eyes glowed faintly. Too large, too black. And then the face emerged. My own face, twisted, bloated, staring back.
I screamed and bolted upright, my hands scrambling across the sheets. The thing under the bed laughed—a low, wet, unhuman sound that made bile rise in my throat.
I lunged for the bedroom door, intending to run outside. My fingers curled around the knob—but it wouldn’t turn. The lock wasn’t engaged. I shook it, screamed, pressed my shoulder into the wood. Nothing. The door refused to open, as if the apartment itself were swallowing me.
I backed away, gasping. Every window was locked. Every exit blocked. I realized with horror that I couldn’t leave. I was trapped.
The Mirror
Desperate, I ran to the bathroom. Maybe the window would open. Maybe I could climb down.
The mirror waited.
My reflection leaned forward, even though I hadn’t moved. Its lips stretched into a grin that wasn’t mine. Its eyes were hollow, infinite, and gleamed with something hungry.
I tried not to look, but my body betrayed me. I stepped closer, and its grin widened. “Don’t look away,” it whispered in a voice that sounded exactly like mine.
The air grew thick. My skin prickled. It wasn’t just the mirror that was alive – everything was. The walls breathed. The carpet squirmed beneath my feet. The ceiling pulsed, slow and wet, like a heartbeat.
Under the Bed Again
I staggered back to the bedroom, knees weak, trying to stay upright. Something shifted under the bed. I heard it before I saw it—the soft scraping, the breathing, wet and deliberate.
I sank to the floor, trembling. Slowly, I lowered my head and looked.
Two eyes glowed faintly. Too large, too black. And the face emerged. My own face, twisted, bloated, staring back.
I screamed. It didn’t move, but the laughter came—a low, wet, mocking sound that made my chest ache.
I tried to run to the bathroom again. My legs shook. But the door at the end of the hallway stopped me. It wouldn’t budge. No matter how I shoved, it stayed firm, unyielding. My panic made my heart hammer. Every direction I turned, every potential escape route, failed me. I was trapped.
The Apartment Watches
I realized then that the apartment was alive.
The walls leaned toward me. The ceiling pulsed like a living thing. The mirrors reflected more than my own fear—they showed fragments of me, dozens of me, twisted and staring, all smiling, all waiting.
I crawled back into the bedroom, hugging the mattress, my ears straining. The whispers came from the corners, the walls, the floor. “Elena…watch…stay…don’t leave…”
I closed my eyes, wishing I could sleep through it. But even then, I felt breath on my neck, cold, wet, heavy. Something moved beneath me, waiting for me to peek.
Confrontation
I had no choice. I had to look.
Slowly, terrified, I peered under the bed. My reflection emerged once again, grinning. It lifted itself out from beneath, bending in impossible angles. The fingers that touched my ankles were mine, but wrong, sharp, wet. Its eyes burned into mine.
I tried to scream, but the sound caught in my throat.
I stumbled toward the mirror. It leaned closer as I approached. “You can’t leave,” it hissed, teeth glinting. “You belong here.”
The walls leaned in. The floor tilted. The air was metallic, coppery, suffocating.
I screamed as the reflection stepped forward from the glass, climbing toward me. My own face, warped and grinning, towered over me. I was pressed back against the wall, unable to move, paralyzed by terror.
The End of Escape
I tried the door again. The windows. The balcony. Nothing budged. I pounded, yelled, begged. The apartment did not care.
The mirror showed me one final time—my own face stretched wide, smiling. I saw under the bed. I saw behind me. I saw the walls pulse. And I knew: wherever I moved, it would follow. Wherever I looked, it would watch.
I am trapped. The apartment waits. The reflection smiles.
And somewhere, in the shadows under the bed, something whispers:
“Now you belong.”
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