Nightmare Gallery: A Treasury of Twisted Terror Tales

The Mirror's Reflection

Anna had always been a creature of habit. She worked as a librarian at the small, local library in the town of Marlowe, and every day after her shift, she walked to the old antique shop at the corner of Church Street. There, nestled between dusty shelves and glass counters, she admired a collection of curiosities that both intrigued and terrified her. The owner, an elderly man named Mr. Wren, never seemed to age, his skin as pale and smooth as porcelain, his eyes deep-set and unreadable.

Today, the shop felt different—darker, more oppressive. The usual clutter of oddities—cracked dolls, tarnished silverware, ancient books—was overshadowed by a single object, newly displayed in the back corner. It was a large, ornate mirror, its frame gilded in gold, intricate patterns swirling around the edges. The glass was dark, almost like it was absorbing the light around it. Anna couldn't help but be drawn to it, her feet moving almost involuntarily toward the mirror.

"Ah, you've noticed it," Mr. Wren's voice came from behind her, causing Anna to jump. He had an unsettling way of appearing without warning. "It's an old thing, very special."

Anna stared into the glass. The reflection wasn't quite right—her image seemed distorted, as if it were trapped in a fog, her features blurred and indistinct. Her heart began to race.

"What's wrong with it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"It's a mirror that shows not what you are, but what you fear," Mr. Wren said, his voice like the rustling of dead leaves. "A mirror of the soul. It only shows its true nature to those who stare long enough."

Anna blinked, unsure whether to laugh or be frightened. It sounded like something from a gothic novel, too absurd to be true. Yet, there was something about the mirror that made her uneasy, something that sent a shiver down her spine.

"Go ahead, take a look. But be warned, once you've seen it, it can never be unseen."

Anna hesitated, then stepped closer. She stared at her reflection, her breath fogging the cold glass. Slowly, as if drawn by an invisible force, her own face began to change. Her features twisted and shifted, her skin paling until it looked sickly, her eyes hollow and black. She gasped and recoiled, but the reflection didn't move with her. It stayed there, grinning back at her with a malevolent smile.

"What... is this?" she whispered, her throat tight with fear.

The figure in the mirror seemed to laugh, a sound that echoed in her head, cold and unrelenting. It was her, but it wasn't. The reflection seemed to mock her, contorting her face into expressions that felt alien, that felt wrong.

"Your fears," it whispered in a voice that sounded like her own, but layered with something darker. "You can't hide from them, Anna."

Suddenly, the image in the mirror blurred and began to shift violently. Anna stepped back, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She turned to leave, but something stopped her—a cold hand pressed against her shoulder, the grip tightening like a vice.

"You've seen it now," Mr. Wren murmured, his voice oddly distant. "You should have left it alone."

Anna spun around to face him, but his eyes were no longer the soft, gray-blue they had been. They were black, endless voids, absorbing all light.

"Wha—what do you mean?" she stammered, backing away from the man, her heart thudding in her chest.

Mr. Wren's lips parted into a smile, but it was not a smile of kindness—it was a grin full of sharp, jagged teeth. "You've opened the door," he said quietly, his tone more predatory now. "You've seen your reflection, and it's seen you. There's no turning back."

Anna turned and fled out of the shop, not looking back until she was halfway down the street. Her body trembled, and she found herself staring at her own reflection in every window she passed. Each time, her face seemed a little more distorted, a little more like the thing she had seen in the mirror.

That night, when she returned home, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching her. The shadows in her apartment felt darker, thicker. Every corner seemed to hold an unseen presence. As she lay in bed, the image of her reflection—the thing that had smiled at her with its unnatural grin—hovered in her mind. She couldn't escape it, no matter how hard she tried.

The next morning, Anna found herself back at the antique shop. She had to confront it, had to understand what had happened. But when she entered, the shop was empty. The mirror was gone. The shelves were bare. Only the cold, empty air remained, and the faintest scent of decay lingered in the air.

Her heart sank. She spun around, her mind racing, but there was no sign of Mr. Wren, no trace of the mirror. It was as though they had never been there at all. The shop felt completely different—empty, barren, as if it had never existed in the first place.

Confused and terrified, Anna stumbled out into the street, her legs shaking beneath her. She couldn't understand what was happening. Had it all been a dream? A hallucination?

But then, as she crossed the street, she caught sight of her reflection in the window of a passing car.

Her heart stopped.

The reflection was hers, but the smile was not. It was the same twisted grin she had seen in the mirror. Her eyes—no longer her own—were cold and empty.

Before she could scream, the reflection in the window reached out, its hand slamming against the glass. Anna's body froze in place, unable to move, unable to escape.

And then, as the reflection in the glass stepped forward, its eyes locked with hers, and it whispered just one thing.

"Now you're mine."

The darkness swallowed her whole.