I was seven years old when I learned to fear mirrors. Not the kind of fear that makes you jump at your own reflection in the dark, but a deeper, colder dread that settled in my bones and never quite left. It started subtly, as these things often do. A flicker in the edge of my vision, a shadow that wasn't there, a sense of being watched from within the glass. My grandmother, bless her eccentric soul, called it "The Glimmer." She said it was the part of the world that existed just beyond our sight, always hungry for attention, always waiting for an invitation.
"Never stare too long, Liam," she'd warned, her voice hushed, her eyes fixed on my own reflection in the antique hall mirror. "Brief glances are fine. But let your gaze linger, let your mind drift, and you invite it in. Especially when you're alone. Especially when the lights are low."
I didn't understand then, not really. I just knew that after her warnings, the mirrors in our old house seemed to hum with a silent presence. I’d catch myself holding my breath as I walked past them, my eyes darting away, never quite meeting my own gaze head-on. My parents, practical and grounded, dismissed it as Grandma's "stories," just like they did her talk of ley lines and moon cycles. They thought it was harmless, a way to spark a child's imagination. They didn't see the way my reflection sometimes seemed to lag a fraction of a second behind my movements, or how the room behind me in the glass would occasionally shift, just a little, before snapping back into place.
The Resurface of a Childhood Dread
Years later, as an adult, I've managed to build a life that feels normal. I have a good job, a loving wife, Sarah, and a bright, curious daughter, Maya. We live in a modern house with plenty of natural light, and I’ve subtly influenced our decor choices to minimize large, prominent mirrors. The bathroom mirror is small, utilitarian. The hall mirror is angled away from direct lines of sight. Sarah jokes about my "mirror phobia," attributing it to a vague childhood trauma I've never fully articulated. I let her believe it. It's easier than explaining The Glimmer.
But lately, a familiar chill has started to creep back into our home, a subtle dissonance that only I seem to notice. It began a few weeks ago, with Maya. She's five, and at that age where she’s endlessly fascinated by her own image. I’d find her standing in front of the bathroom mirror, sometimes for minutes at a time, just staring.
Maya's "Other Self"
"What are you doing, sweetie?" I'd ask, my voice feigning casualness, my heart a little too fast.
"Just looking," she'd say, without turning, her small fingers tracing patterns on the steamed glass. "My other self is being silly."
"Other self?" I'd try to laugh it off, but the words felt like ice in my stomach.
"Yeah! Sometimes she doesn't do what I do. She just stares. Or she makes funny faces when I'm not looking." Maya would giggle, oblivious to the dread that was tightening around my chest. "And sometimes," she whispered, leaning closer to the glass, "she looks really, really sad, even when I'm happy."
I'd quickly scoop her up, distracting her with a story or a game, pulling her away from the mirror. Sarah would just smile, "Oh, she's just being imaginative, Liam. Kids do that."
But I knew better. The signs were too familiar. The subtle distortions, the feeling of something else in the reflection. And then came the exhaustion. Maya, usually a boundless source of energy, started complaining of being tired. She'd fall asleep in her dinner, or refuse to play, just wanting to curl up on the sofa. Sarah thought it was a growth spurt, or maybe a mild bug. I knew it was something else.
The Glimmer was feeding.
Confronting the Reflection
One evening, I found Maya in her room, sitting on the floor in front of her small, decorative mirror. It was a cheap, plastic thing, shaped like a flower, usually ignored. But now, she was intently focused on it, her face pale in the dim light filtering from the hallway. Her reflection, however, seemed to glow with an unnatural vibrancy. And it wasn't mirroring her. Her reflection was smiling, a wide, unsettling grin, while Maya herself sat there, utterly blank, almost catatonic.
A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. This was it. This was the critical warning.
"Maya!" I lunged forward, grabbing the mirror. It felt unnaturally cold, almost vibrating. Without thinking, I slammed it against the edge of her dresser. The cheap plastic cracked, but the mirror itself, stubbornly, didn't shatter.
Maya blinked, slowly, as if waking from a deep sleep. "Daddy? What are you doing?" Her voice was small, confused.
Sarah rushed in, drawn by the noise. "Liam! What on earth...?" She saw the cracked mirror, then my frantic, wild eyes. "Are you okay? What happened?"
I couldn't explain. Not yet. Not without sounding completely insane. But I knew one thing: I had to get rid of every single mirror in this house. And I had to find Aunt Clara. She was the only one who might understand. The only one who might know how to fight The Glimmer.