There is a mirror hanging on my bedroom wall.

It’s got a sturdy pink frame with little purple and white flowers, and it’s almost as tall as I am. My mom likes it, but I wish my parents would take it down. I really don’t like the way my reflection looks at me.

I have to bury myself under all my covers at night so I don’t see her staring; eyes half covered by her tawny, tangled hair; a huge, Cheshire Cat smile spread across her blurry face as if it was drawn there by a knife. Still, it’s hard to sleep, just knowing that she’s there.

Some nights she follows me around in the dark, as I creep down the creaking stairs to get some water from the fridge, sneak across the hallway to use the bathroom. Her strange footsteps patter behind me, echoing through the hall. Clop, clop, clop. I whirl around, eyes wide and wild, trembling and cold with sweat, but I never see her there. It’s just me, an empty hallway, and the pitch black night.

So, I try to go back to bed. But then I glance across the room, and the mirror is smiling at me again, wider and wider with each passing thought.