In a quiet, upscale neighborhood, Eliza—a successful artist known for her eerie, lifelike paintings—begins experiencing strange events in her home after purchasing an antique mirror from a mysterious vendor.
Eliza was captivated the moment she saw the mirror. Its intricate, vine-like carvings framed the glass, its edges chipped with age. At the back of a dusty antique shop, it seemed to call out to her.
“How much for this?” she asked the shopkeeper, her fingers tracing the cold wood.
He hesitated. “You sure about that one? It’s... peculiar. Came in with a batch from an old estate sale. I can let it go for $50.”
Eliza raised an eyebrow but handed over the cash. She didn’t care about the man’s hesitation. The mirror spoke to her in a way she couldn’t explain.
It started subtly. That evening, Eliza placed the mirror in her studio, leaning it against the wall where the sunlight barely reached. She worked late into the night, brushing strokes of crimson onto her latest canvas.
Out of the corner of her eye, something flickered. She turned sharply, staring into the mirror. There was nothing unusual—just her reflection, bathed in the dim light of her desk lamp.
But as she turned back to her canvas, she felt it again—a faint movement in the glass.
“Eliza, get a grip,” she muttered, shaking her head.
-------
The next morning, as she sipped her coffee and glanced at the mirror, she froze. The reflection wasn’t right. The room behind her was the same, but there was an unfamiliar figure—tall, faceless, and shrouded in shadow—standing in the corner.
“Eliza...” The voice was faint, barely audible, yet unmistakable.
Her mug slipped from her hands, shattering on the floor. She spun around, heart pounding. The room was empty.
“Eliza, you’re overworked,” she whispered to herself. “Too many late nights. Too much caffeine.”
But deep down, she knew it wasn’t her imagination.
-------
Over the next week, Eliza couldn’t stay away from the mirror. She painted feverishly, creating scenes she couldn’t explain—dark forests, faceless figures, and a blood-red house. Each time she glanced at the mirror, it seemed to show her something new.
One night, she called her best friend, Clara.
“Eliza, you’re not making any sense,” Clara said over the phone. “A haunted mirror? Come on.”
“I’m serious! It’s not just reflections. It’s like... it’s showing me something. Memories, maybe.”
“Eliza, you’ve been cooped up in that studio too long. Let’s grab dinner, okay? Clear your head.”
“I can’t leave it,” Eliza whispered. “It won’t let me.”
“Eliza—”
She hung up.
-------
The nightmares began soon after. Eliza dreamt of a house engulfed in flames, screams echoing in the night. In the mirror, she began seeing flashes of herself—but not the version she knew. The reflection was wild-eyed, bloodstained, and staring back with a haunting intensity.
“Eliza...” the figure in the mirror whispered one night.
“What do you want from me?” she screamed, tears streaming down her face.
The figure tilted its head. “Don’t you remember?”
Flashes of a suppressed memory surged forward—a stormy night, a fight with someone she couldn’t quite identify, and... blood. So much blood.
“No... no, that’s not real,” she stammered, backing away.
But the mirror wouldn’t let her go. The faceless shadow appeared again, stepping closer to her reflection.
“You took everything,” it whispered.
----------
Clara arrived unannounced days later, worried after Eliza stopped answering her calls. She found the studio in disarray—paint smeared on the walls, canvases slashed, and Eliza sitting in front of the mirror, muttering to herself.
“Eliza! What the hell is going on?” Clara demanded, shaking her friend’s shoulders.
“It’s showing me what I did,” Eliza whispered.
“What you did? Eliza, you’re scaring me.”
“I... I killed someone,” Eliza choked out. “Years ago. A man. He broke into my house, and I—”
“That’s not possible. You would have told me!”
Eliza pointed at the mirror. “Ask it. It knows. It’s been showing me the truth. I buried it so deep, but it’s all coming back.”
Clara stared at the mirror. All she saw was her own reflection, pale and trembling.
“You need help,” Clara said firmly, grabbing Eliza’s arm.
“No!” Eliza screamed, pulling away. “I need to face it. Go from here Clara! I want to be alone!"
She turned back to the mirror. “Show me the rest!”
The reflection smiled—a cold, unnatural grin.
------
The next morning, Clara called the police. Eliza was missing, her studio eerily silent. The mirror sat untouched, its surface cracked.
Months later, Clara walked past a gallery showcasing Eliza’s final works—dark, twisted scenes of fire, death, and guilt.
But the last painting stopped her cold: a lifelike portrait of Eliza, trapped in a mirror, her eyes wide with terror.
--
Did Eliza succumb to her guilt and madness, or did the mirror truly trap her ?
