The Boy in the Mirror

The house at the end of Black Hollow Road had been abandoned for years. It was one of those places locals spoke of in hushed tones, where kids dared each other to spend the night but never did. The windows were black holes, the porch sagged like a tired sigh, and the trees surrounding it pressed in as if they, too, wanted to forget its existence.

I had never believed in ghost stories, but I believed in opportunity.

The house was mine now — left to me in my uncle’s will. A man I had never met, had never even heard of until the lawyer’s letter arrived. My father, ever tight-lipped about his family, offered little explanation.

"It’s yours now," he had said. "Sell it or burn it down for all I care."

That should have been the first sign. Not just his indifference, but how quickly he dismissed it, as if the house itself wasn’t worth discussing.

Still, something about it tugged at me. Maybe it was the mystery, the way it had come into my possession like a story half-told, demanding an ending. So I packed a bag, drove two states over, and arrived in the dead of night, standing at the rusted gate that bore my last name — Callahan.

I hesitated.

For a second, I felt… off.

Like I had been here before.

Like I had stood at this very gate, staring up at the house, waiting for something to happen.

The moment passed, and I shook it off.

The inside was worse than I expected. Dust hung in thick sheets over forgotten furniture, and the air smelled stale, like time had stopped breathing here. I flicked on my flashlight, the beam cutting across cobwebbed staircases and peeling wallpaper.

In the entryway, a mirror stood against the far wall, its surface warped with age. For a moment, I thought I saw movement in it — just a flicker — but when I turned, there was nothing behind me.

Shaking it off, I started my survey of the place. The ground floor was typical of an old Victorian — a sitting room with a dead fireplace, a kitchen with a rusted stove, a dining room still set for a meal no one ever ate. But it was the second floor that made my stomach turn.

At the end of the hallway stood a door different from the others. Heavy. Locked with a bolt, as though someone had wanted to keep something in. Or out.

My name was carved into the wood.

Tom.

I stared at it, my fingers ghosting over the grooves.

It was unsettling, sure — but hadn’t my dad mentioned another Tom in the family?

Hadn’t someone, at some point, told me that?

I frowned. No, that wasn’t right. I had never heard of another Tom.

Had I?

The longer I looked at the name, the less sure I was.

I don’t remember falling asleep.

One moment, I was trying to pick the lock; the next, I woke up in a bed that wasn’t mine.

The bedroom was small, unfamiliar. The wallpaper was a faded blue, covered in little sailboats. A dresser stood against the wall, its drawers slightly open, stuffed with tiny clothes. The window let in a pale light, illuminating a wooden rocking horse in the corner, its paint chipped away from years of use.

My pulse thudded against my ribs.

I didn’t remember entering this room.

I didn’t remember lying down.

A memory surfaced — me, as a child, sitting on that very bed, tracing the outlines of the sailboats with my fingertips.

But that was impossible.

I had never been here before.

Had I?

The air felt thick, pressing against my skin like unseen hands. I pushed myself up, the bedsheets pooling around my waist. The hallway outside was darker than before, the walls seeming to breathe in and out with each step I took.

Then I saw it again.

The mirror.

Only this time, the reflection wasn’t mine.

He stood just behind me.

A boy, no older than six, with wide, dark eyes and hair that fell over his forehead. He wore a red sweater and corduroy overalls. His hands were clenched into tiny fists, his face expressionless.

I turned around.

No one was there.

I turned back to the mirror.

He was still staring at me.

I should have left then. Should have grabbed my bag and driven until I ran out of gas. But something deeper than fear held me there.

I began searching.

The house felt different now, the layout unfamiliar, like rooms had shifted when I wasn’t looking. Doors led to places they shouldn’t. The kitchen now opened into the bedroom with the sailboat wallpaper. The stairs twisted in the wrong direction. The dining room table was no longer set.

Then I found the journal.

It was in the sitting room, hidden beneath a pile of rotting newspapers. The leather cover was cracked, the pages yellowed with time. The handwriting inside was neat, deliberate.

July 14, 1987

Tom is doing well today. He didn’t cry when I locked the door this time. He understands it’s for his own good.

August 3, 1987

He’s so quiet now. Not like before. I think he finally accepts that this is how it has to be.

September 21, 1987

The doctor says it’s for the best. That Tom isn’t like the other children. That he needs structure, control. I trust the doctor. I have to.

October 31, 1987

I can’t do this anymore. The house is too empty without him. But I can’t let him out. He’s not right. He never was.

The pages blurred in front of my eyes. My breath came fast and shallow.

I didn’t remember any of this.

I didn’t remember ever being here.

But I knew, without a doubt, that Tom was me.

The house groaned around me, as if waking from a deep sleep.

And then I heard the whisper.

"Tom."

I turned, and he was standing in the doorway.

The boy from the mirror.

The boy in the red sweater.

Me.

A child’s voice — my voice — rang in my head-

"You left me here."

The memories came like a flood.

I was six years old. Trapped behind that heavy wooden door. Scratching at it. Screaming for my mother to let me out.

She never did.

She had been afraid of me.

Because I wasn’t normal. Because the doctors said I wasn’t right. Because I had done things. Things no child should have been able to do.

I backed away from the boy — my younger self — as he stepped closer. His dark eyes shone with something unreadable, something ancient.

"You forgot about me," he said.

His voice wasn’t angry. It was worse than that.

It was hollow.

And then he reached out.

The second his fingers touched mine, my vision shattered.

I gasped, choking on dust and age and time itself.

The house was no longer abandoned.

It was as it had been all those years ago — pristine, lived-in, full of warmth and life.

And I was standing in the sailboat room, staring at the wooden rocking horse, my hands smaller than they should have been.

The bedroom door creaked open.

My mother stepped inside.

And she locked the door behind her.

I never left.

I had never left.

The life I thought I had lived — the years beyond this house — had been a lie. A dream. A trick of the mind.

I was still here.

And I always would be.

Because some doors, once locked, can never be opened again.