CONTEST: The Keyword of the Week - Spooky

Image from Pixabay

The Mirror

I’ve always liked old things. Antiques, dusty books, forgotten furniture. That’s probably why I ended up in Elvira’s shop that rainy afternoon.

No sign, no lights—just a creaky door and a bell that rang when I walked in. It smelled like mildew. Elvira, was sitting behind the counter. She looked up and nodded, without saying a word.

I wandered through the aisles, touching objects I probably shouldn’t have. An old globe, porcelain dolls, wooden puppets. Then I saw it: the mirror.

I noticed it because my grandmother had one just like it. It was the kind of mirror women used to keep on their vanity table. It was round, mounted on a wooden base, and could spin. The frame was carved wood too, and I stepped closer to see it better.

While my grandmother’s mirror was decorated with roses, this one had a very intricate pattern. Looking closely, they weren’t rosebuds at all—they were tiny faces. Some smiling, some twisted, some suffering.

Instinctively, I looked into the mirror and saw my own uneasy face. My reflection stared back. I blinked. My reflection didn’t. I froze. Maybe I imagined it. I stepped closer. I raised my arm—but my reflection didn’t.

“Don’t be afraid,” I heard whispered.

I looked around. The shop was empty, and Elvira hadn’t moved. I wanted to ask her if it was her voice, but I couldn’t speak.

The shop lights started flickering. I turned to leave. The voice whispered again.

“Don’t leave me here!”

I didn’t listen. I ran out of the shop and didn’t stop until I reached the main road. I didn’t tell anyone. Who would believe me? A spooky talking mirror?

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. For days. Weeks. But I never went back to the shop.

Sometimes, when I pass by reflective surfaces—windows, water, even my bathroom mirror—I hesitate. I check to see if my reflection blinks when I do.