The Woman in the Mirror

The old house creaked like a ship battling a storm, every groan of the floorboards echoing in the cavernous silence. Ethan, 15, shivered, not from the chill of the drafty room, but from the creeping unease that had settled in his gut since he'd moved in with his aunt. His aunt, a woman with eyes that held the weight of a thousand unspoken stories, had warned him about the house. She'd spoken of whispers, shadows dancing in corners, and a constant feeling of being watched. He'd scoffed, attributing it to the age of the house, the creaking wood, the dusty corners. But now, standing in the bathroom, the mirror reflecting the dim light of a single bulb, he wasn't so sure. He'd been brushing his teeth, the rhythmic swish of the brush against his teeth a comforting sound in the otherwise silent house. He glanced at the mirror, expecting to see his own reflection, the familiar mop of brown hair, the tired eyes that had been glued to his phone screen for hours. Instead, he saw her. A silhouette, a dark shape against the pale light, stood behind him. It was a woman, tall and slender, her hair long and flowing, obscuring her face. He froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. He blinked, hoping it was a trick of the light, a shadow playing on the mirror. But she was still there, her form as solid as his own. He slowly turned, his hand instinctively reaching for the toothbrush, his weapon in this silent battle. But there was nothing behind him. The bathroom was empty, the air thick with the scent of mildew and dust. He stared at the mirror, his breath catching in his throat. He saw nothing, just his own reflection, his face pale and drawn, his eyes wide with fear. He tried to convince himself it was a trick of his mind, a figment of his imagination. He'd been reading too many horror stories, watching too many scary movies. But the image of the woman, her silhouette etched in his mind, refused to fade. He spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, the image of the woman haunting his dreams. He tried to ignore it, to focus on the creaking of the house, the rustling of the wind against the windowpanes. But the fear, a cold, clammy hand, gripped his heart. The next morning, he found his aunt in the kitchen, her face etched with worry. He told her about the woman in the mirror, his voice trembling. She listened patiently, her eyes filled with a sadness he couldn't understand. "The house has a history, Ethan," she said, her voice low and hushed. "A history that's not always pleasant." She told him about the previous owner, a woman who had lived in the house alone, her life shrouded in mystery. She had died in the house, alone and forgotten, her spirit trapped within its walls. Ethan listened, his skin crawling with goosebumps. He felt a chill, not from the cold air, but from the unseen presence that seemed to permeate the house. He tried to ignore it, to focus on his schoolwork, to find solace in the company of his friends. But the woman in the mirror continued to haunt him. He saw her in the shadows, felt her presence in the empty rooms. He started to hear whispers, faint and ethereal, echoing through the house, calling his name. One night, he woke up to the sound of a soft, mournful cry. He sat up in bed, his heart pounding in his chest. The cry came again, closer this time, emanating from the hallway. He crept out of bed, his hand trembling as he reached for the light switch. The hallway was dark, the only light coming from the moonbeams that streamed through the window. He saw her then, standing at the end of the hallway, her silhouette outlined against the moonlight. She turned, her face still obscured by her long hair, and looked at him. He felt a cold dread wash over him, a fear that went beyond the rational. He wanted to scream, to run, but his body refused to obey. He stood there, frozen, as she slowly walked towards him. He could feel her presence, a cold, ethereal touch that sent shivers down his spine. He closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable, the touch of the cold, the whisper of her voice. But it never came. He opened his eyes, his heart still pounding, and saw that she was gone. The hallway was empty, the only sound the creaking of the old house. He went back to bed, his mind racing. He didn't know what to believe, what to fear. He knew one thing, though: he was not alone in the house. The woman in the mirror was real, and she was watching him. He never saw her again, but he never forgot her. He left the house soon after, the memories of the woman in the mirror etched in his mind. He never looked back, but he knew, deep down, that she was still there, waiting, watching, her silhouette forever imprinted on the mirror of his memory.