I never feared mirrors—until the night it looked back.

It was an old thing, the kind you’d find in a grandmother’s attic. Ornate, heavy, and edged in dark wood with carvings of twisted vines. I found it at a secondhand store, hidden in a dusty corner. The owner sold it cheap, too eager to let it go. I should’ve known then.

The first few nights were normal. I’d glance at it while brushing my teeth, adjusting my hair, doing everything a person does in front of a mirror. But something shifted on the fifth night. My reflection didn’t follow me right away. I turned, but it stayed—watching. Smiling.

I froze. The smile wasn’t mine. It was wider. Sharper. Like something was stretching my skin from the inside out.

I blinked. The reflection caught up. Maybe I was tired.

But every night after that, it got worse. The reflection lingered longer, always just a second too late. And that smile—it grew. Not just on my face. Behind me, inside the glass, I started to see something else. Horns, coiling behind my image. Red eyes that glowed faintly even when the lights were off.

One night, I dared to ask it.

“What are you?”

It smiled through my lips.

“You.”

I backed away. The room felt colder. Shadows pressed in.

“You’re not me.”

It tilted its head. “Not yet.”

After that, it followed me in other reflections—windows, dark TV screens, even puddles. Always smiling. Always watching. Each time, it looked a little more like me. A little less like… it.

I stopped looking in mirrors. Covered every one in the house. But it didn’t matter. I could feel it—right behind the glass, waiting.

Tonight, I couldn’t take it anymore. I ripped the cloth off the old mirror and stared.

It grinned, those red eyes blazing.

“You’re almost ready,” it whispered.

And then I smiled back.

Not because I wanted to.

But because it was already using my face.

When I look at the mirror now, I don’t see a reflection.

I see a prison.

And the devil staring out is me.