It always begins quietly, with a bargain too tempting to ignore. An antique hand mirror, its silver frame tarnished but elegant, lies among chipped porcelain and forgotten trinkets at flea markets and estate sales. The vendor never remembers acquiring it and accepts whatever price is offered, eager to see it gone. Buyers carry it home feeling oddly triumphant, convinced they’ve discovered a treasure overlooked by others. But as soon as the mirror crosses a new threshold, daylight dims as though a thin veil has settled over the house, shadows stretch long and sharp, and clocks seem to tick just a little slower.
The first changes are subtle. A faint metallic tang lingers in the air, like the scent of ozone after a lightning strike. Pets shy away from the room where the mirror rests, their ears flattening at sounds their owners can’t hear. Visitors notice nothing unusual, yet the new owner begins to feel watched, their reflection pulling at the corners of their vision. They tell themselves it’s only imagination—old glass plays tricks with light. But when they turn to leave, they swear their reflection lingers a heartbeat longer, moving just slightly out of sync, a delay too small to measure yet impossible to ignore.
By the third day, the delay grows. The reflection follows each gesture a fraction too late, as though considering the action before copying it. Owners test the phenomenon by waving quickly or snapping their fingers. Sometimes the reflection starts to mimic but freezes mid-motion, eyes fixed on the viewer with an unsettling intelligence. At night, the house feels colder. Shadows lengthen unnaturally, sliding across walls in patterns that defy the placement of lamps or moonlight. Even digital clocks seem sluggish, seconds dragging like hours. Friends notice the owner appears pale and distracted, but their concerns are dismissed with forced smiles and hurried goodbyes.
Sleep becomes difficult. Dreams are filled with silver corridors and whispering echoes. The owner often wakes to find the mirror facing them, no matter where it was placed before bedtime. Some discover faint fingerprints on the glass—longer, narrower than their own—though the surface is cold and dry. Electronics malfunction nearby: phones drain overnight, alarm clocks reset, and radios emit soft static that fades when the mirror is covered. Yet covering it never lasts. The cloth slides off during the night, always neatly folded on the floor by morning, as though the reflection itself refuses to be hidden.
Curiosity eventually overcomes fear. Owners stare longer, hoping to catch the trick of light that causes the delay. They lean closer, breath fogging the glass, watching every twitch of their own muscles. That is when the reflection begins to smile first. The grin is faint at first, a mere quiver of lips before the real face moves. Sometimes the reflection whispers, though the sound seems to come from inside the viewer’s own head. Words are indistinct but soothing, promising secrets, knowledge, even love. The mirror feels warm to the touch, as if the silver frame hides a quiet heartbeat.
The whispers grow clearer with each night. They speak of things only the owner knows—buried regrets, unspoken desires, long-forgotten memories. The reflection tilts its head differently than the real person, eyes sharp and knowing. It praises the owner for staying, for listening. Some report a subtle pressure in the skull, like a gentle hand guiding their thoughts. They begin to lose track of time, sitting for hours before the mirror, convinced only minutes have passed. Meals are skipped, appointments forgotten. Friends and family notice the change: a distant gaze, dark circles under the eyes, a new obsession that consumes every conversation.
Attempts to discard the mirror fail. Owners who try to hide it in attics or basements find it returned to their bedrooms by morning. Those who smash it discover only a clean, intact surface where shards should be. A few manage to sell it, but the relief is temporary. Dreams of the mirror continue, and an irresistible urge to reclaim it takes hold. Some travel miles to retrieve the object they willingly gave away, claiming it “called” to them. Their reflections greet them with what looks like satisfaction, a widening grin that stretches unnaturally across the silvered glass.
Neighbors whisper about disappearances. A man in Denver who purchased the mirror vanished from his locked apartment, leaving dinner half-eaten on the table. A college student in Prague was last seen staring into a dorm-room mirror identical to the cursed glass. In every case, the mirror reappeared within days at a different market table, its frame faintly warm despite cold weather. Security cameras capture nothing unusual—only a blank spot where the mirror should be during the critical hours. Authorities dismiss the pattern as coincidence, but antique dealers exchange nervous glances when the tarnished silver frame turns up unannounced.
Some brave individuals attempt to study the mirror under controlled conditions. Paranormal researchers set up cameras and electromagnetic sensors, but equipment fails within minutes. Batteries drain, lenses fog, and recorded footage shows only static or the empty room. One scientist claimed to hear his own voice calling from inside the glass, describing events from his past he had never spoken aloud. He fled the room and refused to return, leaving his notes unfinished. Others who linger too long report feeling as though their reflections are drawing breath, ready to step forward while the real world waits breathless on the other side.
Legends about the mirror’s origin vary. Some say it belonged to a Victorian medium who used it to contact spirits and was found dead with her own reflection frozen in a grin. Others trace it to an ancient Venetian glassmaker rumored to have traded his soul for perfect clarity. A few suggest the mirror predates human history altogether, a relic from a time when reflections were more than mere images. Whatever its true beginning, the mirror continues to circulate, slipping through hands and across continents, leaving only pale, hollow-eyed owners in its wake—those who remain long enough to be seen.
Owners who resist its lure describe a relentless mental assault. The whispers shift from gentle coaxing to sharp commands: *Look deeper. Stay longer. Don’t turn away.* Some experience nosebleeds or migraines when they attempt to cover the glass. A few hear the mirror speaking even when it is out of sight, its voice resonating from walls or echoing faintly in running water. Doctors attribute the symptoms to stress or sleep deprivation, but medical tests reveal nothing abnormal. Still, the compulsion grows stronger, until even the most cautious feel the need to face the mirror once more, if only to prove control.
One woman in Marseille reportedly documented her ordeal in a hidden journal. Her final entries describe the reflection leaning forward independently, lips moving with clear words she dared not repeat. She wrote of seeing landscapes behind the glass—bleak plains under a dark sky, towers of broken mirrors stretching to infinity. On her last night, she sketched an image of herself reaching toward the reflection as it extended a hand in return. The next morning, her apartment was locked from within, dinner cold on the stove. Only the journal and the warm, spotless mirror remained, waiting silently for discovery.
Those who disappear leave behind rooms marked by faint ozone and elongated shadows that persist for hours. Clocks in these spaces often run slow for days afterward, as if time itself hesitates. Investigators who linger too long near the mirror report feelings of dizziness and the uncanny sensation of being watched by something far larger than their reflection. Some develop temporary aphasia, losing words for minutes at a time. Others claim to see multiple reflections within the single pane—different versions of themselves, each with slightly different expressions, all smiling with the same patient hunger.
Despite warnings, the mirror’s allure is undeniable. Collectors seek it out, driven by rumors of supernatural beauty or forbidden knowledge. Each claims they will resist its influence, that they will be the one to solve its mystery without succumbing. Yet the pattern repeats. Days pass before they notice clocks slowing, lights dimming, reflections hesitating. Then come the whispers, the smiles, the growing desire to stay just a little longer in front of the silvered surface. Pride becomes obsession, obsession becomes surrender. And still the mirror waits, offering secrets no human can bear to know without losing themselves entirely.
Occasionally, the mirror vanishes for years before resurfacing. During these absences, rumors spread of strange accidents—people walking into traffic while staring into windows, mirrors cracking spontaneously in unrelated locations, fleeting sightings of familiar faces in shopfronts. Some believe the mirror’s influence extends beyond its physical form, seeding fragments of itself wherever reflections exist. Others think it feeds during these dormant periods, gathering strength for its next cycle. When it finally reappears, it is always in perfect condition, the silver frame untarnished despite decades of neglect, as if polished by invisible hands waiting for the next curious soul.
And so the cursed hand mirror continues its silent journey, passed from market to market, home to home. Each new owner believes they are prepared, convinced they will uncover the truth or profit from the legend. But daylight will dim, clocks will slow, and their reflection will eventually smile first. The whispers will grow louder, promising knowledge beyond comprehension. Some will vanish, leaving only the faint scent of ozone and a pristine mirror ready for its next victim. By dawn, the glass will rest innocently on another table, gleaming beneath flickering lights, waiting for eyes bold—or foolish—enough to meet its gaze.
Anthology of the Unknown 