CREEPYPASTA

The Painting In The Mirror

My hands shake as I write this. I've long given up any hope of anyone ever believing me, or offering me any form of meaningful help. All I can do is stay here and hope I never see it again. I don't know why, but for some reason I've come to believe that if I can't see it, maybe it can't see me. That makes sense, right?

You have no idea what I'm talking about. You've probably already dismissed this as the senseless scrawling of a madman. Believe whatever you want, I can't help that. All I can do is tell you what I saw, and what horrible things I have come to know about this world.

It all began about six months ago. I was just starting my last semester of college, and desperately needed a place to stay. I don't have many people I can safely call my friends, and this put me at a disadvantage. My home was too far away from campus to commute, and my family couldn't afford to put me up in the overpriced dorms anymore.

Desperate, I scanned local newspapers and websites, looking for anything I could afford. Less than a week before classes started, I lucked out: there was a one-room basement studio going for below market-value in the nearby town of Greenhaven, New Jersey. The drive to campus would only be about fifteen minutes, and there were a number of local stores and restaurants where I could look to find a part-time job. Excited, we contacted the realtor's listed e-mail address, and got a response inviting us to tour the place and, if we liked it, sign the lease forms. 

Things started getting strange the day we got there. When we arrived at the building, rather than meeting the realtor, we were instead greeted by a scrawny courier, who handed us an addressed envelope.

"The keys and lease forms are inside," he said in an unsteady voice, "If you like the place, sign the forms and send them with a check to the address on the envelope. If you don't, just send them back with the keys."

This struck us as extremely strange, and we tried questioning the courier, but he was rushed and had more deliveries to make. Once he left, my parents got into an argument. My dad was uneasy and wanted to leave, convinced this was some sort of trap or scam, but my mom insisted that we look at the apartment. I love my mom, but she's very impulsive and has an extremely short temper, and before we made a scene I took the keys and went down into the apartment.

It was a small one-room studio with a cramped bathroom and kitchenette. It wasn't ideal, but I knew how much my parents were paying for my tuition and knew this was the cheapest place we were going to find that was livable. I faked enthusiasm, which convinced my mom. My dad still looked uneasy, but didn't argue.

The move-in was brutal, and the three of us were exhausted by the end of the night, but the place was cozy enough. I hugged my parents, thanking them before they left. My dad held on longer than usual, and when my mom was out of earshot, said quietly to me:

"You let me know if anything—and I mean anything—doesn't feel right, okay?" 

I nodded, and was about to say something, but when I mom saw him murmuring to me she became agitated and my dad decided it was best to leave, but the concerned expression stayed on his face as they drove away.

That first night was one of the weirdest of my life. As I lay there on my newly-assembled bed, I realized that this was the first time I had ever slept completely alone. Up until that night, I had always lived either in my house, in a dorm building, or in a hotel room whenever my family went on vacation. In all cases I had been surrounded by people I knew in a safely guarded place. Now I was alone in a creaky old building in a town I knew nothing about.

And then there was the mirror. It was the only decoration in the apartment—besides another smaller one in the bathroom—and hung on the wall at the foot of my bed. Whenever I would shift onto my back, I would be confronted by my own shadowy likeness, framed by the bedpost and painting hanging on the wall above me.