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Jennifer had just moved into her new apartment with her four-month-old son, Daniel. After months of cramped living in her sister’s guest room, the place felt like freedom. It was bright, airy, and perfectly decorated—modern furniture, clean white walls, polished hardwood floors. She had enough room for Daniel’s crib in her bedroom, a cozy kitchen for her late-night tea, and even space in the living room where she imagined hosting small gatherings when life felt less exhausting.
There was, however, one strange detail she hadn’t planned on: the antique mirror. It stood on the far wall of the living room, taller than she was, framed in tarnished gold that curled into intricate patterns of leaves and flowers. A crack ran through the frame but not the glass itself. Jennifer assumed it was some decorative antique left behind by the previous tenant. She’d considered asking the landlord to remove it, but the hassle didn’t seem worth it. Besides, it gave the room a kind of old-world charm… at least at first.
The first time she noticed something off, it was subtle. She’d been rocking Daniel in the early hours of the morning when she caught sight of herself in the mirror. For just a fraction of a second, she thought her reflection blinked slower than she did. The next second, everything looked normal, and she laughed it off as new-mom exhaustion.
Three weeks passed without incident. Her neighbors were friendly but kept to themselves, the building was quiet, and the days slipped into a routine of feedings, naps, and laundry. Yet every time she passed the mirror, a faint unease tugged at her. It wasn’t fear exactly—more like being studied. The feeling was strongest at night, when the apartment was silent except for the hum of the fridge.
One rainy afternoon, Jennifer sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the mirror, playing with Daniel. His small hands batted at the air as she tickled his feet. She smiled into the glass, watching the two of them reflected back like a picture-perfect moment.
“That’s my boy,”
She said softly, bouncing him. She said it again, louder this time, letting him hear the joy in her voice. “That’s my boy.”
The mirror smiled back at her except something was wrong. It wasn’t her smile. The corners of her reflection’s mouth lifted just a little too far, stretching her features in a way that made her stomach twist. She blinked hard, but the expression didn’t change. Instead, the reflection tilted its head, slowly, unnaturally, like a marionette on stiff strings.
Jennifer froze. Then the reflection’s arm moved—without her moving at all. A pale hand pushed forward, pressing against the inside of the glass. The surface rippled like water. Before Jennifer could scream, the hand shot out, icy and impossibly strong, snatching Daniel from her lap.
“No!”
She lunged forward, grasping at his blanket, but it slipped through her fingers. The reflection no longer looked like her. Its features had warped into those of a gaunt, grey-skinned old woman, hair matted and thin, eyes sunk deep into shadow. Her lips curled back over yellow teeth as she clutched Daniel against her chest.
“THAT’S MY BOY,”
The figure rasped, voice like a knife scraping stone. With that, the mirror cracked—not in small lines but in one violent explosion, shards raining across the floor. Jennifer shielded her face, heart pounding so loud she could barely hear. When she dared to look again, the frame was empty. The wall behind it was bare. Daniel was gone.
The police arrived within ten minutes of her frantic call. She told them everything—how something had come out of the mirror, how it wasn’t her reflection, how it had taken her baby. Two officers exchanged glances, the kind people give when they’re silently deciding if you need a detective or a mental health crisis team. They searched the apartment, every closet, every corner. No broken mirror, no antique frame. No evidence a mirror had ever been there at all.
They found no signs of forced entry, no fingerprints other than hers. One officer finally asked if she had a history of postpartum depression, and that was when Jennifer stopped talking. The case was quietly filed as a missing child with insufficient evidence.
The nights after Daniel’s disappearance were unbearable. She barely slept, jumping at every sound, every shadow. But the worst came at dusk, when the light in the living room began to dim. Even with no mirror on the wall, she would sometimes see a faint reflection—herself and Daniel, sitting together, smiling. If she blinked, the image vanished.
One evening, about a week after, Jennifer heard soft tapping. It came from the empty wall where the mirror had once been. She approached, breath trembling, and laid her hand against the wallpaper. Cold seeped into her skin. The tapping grew louder, joined by a muffled cry.
“Mommy…”
Her heart nearly stopped. It was Daniel’s voice. She pressed her ear to the wall, sobbing, calling his name. For a moment, she could almost feel him on the other side, tiny fingers brushing against hers. Then another voice joined his—a rasping whisper, low and satisfied:
“That’s my boy.”
The wall went silent. The landlord swore there had never been a mirror in that apartment. Neighbors said no baby had ever lived there before. One elderly woman down the hall muttered something about;
“the one who collects children”
But refused to explain further. Jennifer has since moved out. She avoids mirrors entirely now, even in public restrooms or store windows. But sometimes, in the corner of her eye, she swears she catches a glimpse of that gaunt, grey-skinned woman, smiling just a little too wide.
And somewhere, beyond glass and shadow, she knows Daniel is still there.
