Shadows in the Mirror

The nights were the hardest.

The darkness outside wrapped around the house like an unwanted cloak, filling every corner with dread. At first, it was just an unease – a feeling, a flicker, a whisper in the stillness. Now, the fear had grown sharp, like cold hands gripping tightly around her throat, refusing to let her breathe freely.

Lucy couldn't sleep. She had stopped trying. Lying awake, she kept her eyes fixed on the door, watching for the shadows she swore were moving just beyond it. Every creak in the house, every shift of the wind through the trees outside, sent her heart racing. She couldn’t go on like this.

A year ago, her husband, Daniel, had disappeared. To the world, it was a mystery. She had played the part of the grieving wife well, staying inside, looking gaunt and empty. But inside, she was a different woman, a woman who had loved him once – and had hated him at the end. When he was no longer the man she’d married, she had finally found herself unable to withstand his dark spirals, the threats, the manipulations. So, on one cold autumn night, she had ended it. Her hands still remembered the feel of the shovel, the weight of the soil, the silence after his last breath.

But now he was back. He was everywhere.

It started with her reflection. The first time she’d noticed it was a week ago, when she had been brushing her teeth in the bathroom. Her eyes had fallen to the mirror, and she froze. Behind her, in the darkened doorway, she could have sworn she saw Daniel’s face – his expression twisted in a cruel grin. She’d turned around, but there was nothing there. The mirror was empty.

The hallucinations came more frequently after that. She’d see him in the living room, sitting in his old armchair, fingers tapping against the armrest in the same nervous rhythm he had when he was angry. Sometimes, she’d hear his laugh, low and mocking, echoing from somewhere in the house. The sound came and went, as if drifting on an unseen breeze, taunting her.

One night, exhausted and desperate, Lucy called her friend, Anna. Anna had been there for her after Daniel’s disappearance, giving her support and space when she needed it. But this was something different – something that could risk exposing her.

Lucy’s hand trembled as she pressed her phone to her ear. "Anna," she whispered, trying to keep her voice steady, "I need to talk to someone."

Anna arrived with a bottle of wine and her usual warmth, although Lucy noticed a flicker of concern in her eyes as she stepped inside. The house was colder than usual, despite the heating, and Lucy’s drawn face was pale and haunted.

“I haven’t been sleeping,” Lucy said, once they were settled in the dimly lit living room. “I keep... hearing him, seeing him. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Anna placed a gentle hand on her arm. "It’s probably the stress, Lucy. Maybe you should see someone – talk to a professional? It could help."

But Lucy shook her head, knowing that no therapist could undo what she had done. Talking about it would mean confessing, and she couldn't risk that. Not now.

After Anna left, Lucy felt a brief sense of calm. Her friend’s presence had soothed her nerves, giving her a glimpse of normalcy, a reminder that there was still life outside these four walls. But as the night closed in and the shadows lengthened, the fear returned, stronger and more oppressive than before.

Just after midnight, Lucy woke to a sound she hadn’t heard in months – a scratching, clawing noise coming from the back garden. Heart pounding, she pulled herself out of bed and crept to the window, peering out into the darkness. The night was quiet, but there, at the edge of the garden, she saw something that made her blood run cold.

The soil, where she had buried him, looked disturbed, as if something had clawed its way out.

A sob escaped her lips, and she stumbled back, slamming into the dresser behind her. The mirror above it rattled, and, for just a second, she caught sight of him. Daniel’s face stared back at her, his expression twisted in anger and pain. She blinked, and he was gone.

Lucy fell to the floor, curling into herself as the weight of it all crushed down on her. "You’re not real," she whispered, rocking back and forth. "You’re not real. You’re not real."

But the haunting didn’t stop.

Everywhere she went, he was there – in reflections, in the shadows, in her dreams. She felt his cold, dead hands on her shoulders at night, his voice in her ear, his presence closing in on her. She stopped going outside. She barely ate, barely slept. Her whole world was collapsing, pulling her into a nightmare she couldn't escape.

One night, in a final act of desperation, she went back to the garden, shovel in hand. The wind whipped around her as she dug frantically, her heart racing. She needed to see – to prove to herself that he was still there, that he hadn’t come back. Dirt flew around her, her hands blistering and raw, until, finally, she reached the spot where she had buried him.

But the grave was empty.

A scream tore from her throat as she stumbled back, dropping the shovel. She felt him then, his cold hands on her shoulders, his breath on her neck. His voice, low and menacing, filled her ears.

“You can’t hide from me, Lucy,” he whispered. “Not anymore.”

She turned, but there was no one there. Only the darkness, stretching out before her, as empty and hollow as her soul.

In the days that followed, Lucy became a ghost herself. She wandered the house aimlessly, haunted by a past she could never escape. The line between reality and nightmare blurred until there was no difference, no relief. She could feel him beside her, a constant presence, a reminder of what she had done.

In the end, she accepted it. The fear, the guilt, the endless haunting – they were her punishment. She had taken his life, and now he had taken hers, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.

And so she lived, trapped in a prison of her own making, forever haunted by the man she could never truly bury.