Elise first saw him in the mirror.
It wasn't a reflection.
It was a presence.
She'd been in the changing room, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like lazy flies. Her skirt was half-zipped when something flickered at the edge of the mirror—a stain, a shadow too dense to be a trick of the light.
She looked up.
He was standing just behind her.
A man in a wide black hat, the brim tilted low. His hair was long and slick, hanging in thick, wet ropes past his shoulders. His skin was pale, too tight, stretched across high cheekbones like paper glued to bone. His smile looked stitched into place—thin, forced, bleeding at the corners.
But it was the eyes—or lack of them—that froze her.
Empty sockets. Not hollow, but open. Like holes to somewhere else, somewhere wrong.
Her body rebelled. She stumbled backward, knocking over a clothing rack. Her half-fastened skirt slipped to her ankles.
The curtain rustled shut behind her with a snap, like something pulling taut.
A salesgirl appeared, concerned. "Ma'am? Are you okay?"
Elise couldn't speak. Her throat locked up. She pointed toward the mirror, but he was gone.
They checked the CCTV. Nothing. Just Elise—alone and frantic—tearing open changing room curtains and staring into empty mirrors.
Macey and Charlotte watched with uncomfortable silence.
"You've been working too hard," Macey offered. "You're seeing things. Like, Slender Man for fashion victims."
Elise forced a laugh. It sounded like it came from someone else's mouth.
But the smell lingered: wet wool and old metal. Like blood wiped from a penny.
That night, the sketchbook found her.
She didn't remember picking it up. Didn't remember sitting down. But there it was in her lap, pencil in hand, lines forming almost of their own will.
His face took shape again.
The man in the mirror.
His hat. His grin. His eyes—those black, endless holes.
Her fingers wouldn't stop drawing. They moved faster, as if trying to get him out of her head before he crawled in deeper.
She stopped when the lamp flickered. Once. Twice. Then again.
A soft sound followed. Scritch-scratch. Like fingernails over drywall.
It came from behind the wall.
Elise's blood turned to slush.
Her eyes darted toward the noise.
It was too deliberate. Not rats. Not wind.
She remembered the old stories—things her mother used to say. About witches that could peel open windows with their nails. About spirits who lived behind glass.
She shook the thought off.
"Elise?"
Her brother's knock at the door made her jump.
The light steadied.
The sound stopped.
The sketchbook was still open. The man's face looked more alive now. His mouth wider.
Beneath the sketch, new words had been scrawled in ink darker than her pencil:
You dress like her.
Jared leaned over. "Why does it say that?"
She slammed the book shut so hard it echoed.
Elise started researching that night. She didn't sleep.
Online, she searched:
"black hat man mirror"
"reflection wrong"
"no eyes grinning figure"
She found a post.
"I saw him. In my mirror. Thought it was just a dream. Then he started showing up in windows. Even my phone screen. I stopped sleeping. I think he's getting closer."
The user hadn't posted again.
A week later, someone replied:
"My sister saw him too. She stopped talking. Now she just sits by the mirror. We can't get her to move."
Dozens of threads, scattered across forums and Reddit. Most were deleted or locked. But a pattern emerged:
See the man. Post about it.
Then—silence.
Or worse.
Elise remembered her mother.
The mirrors in their house had always been covered. Blankets. Towels. Even tin foil once.
Her mother would whisper, "They're not glass, mija. They're doors. And some doors don't close once you look too long."
Everyone thought she was crazy.
When Elise was eight, the doctors tried "treatment."
They locked her mother in a room filled with mirrors.
She screamed for hours.
Then she stopped.
When they let her out, she was still standing—but silent. Her lips pressed into a tight line. Her eyes wide and wrong. Not frightened. Not empty.
Just... gone.
A body with no one home.
They kept her in that state until she died.
Now Elise understood.
Three nights later, Elise heard the mirror breathing.
She sat up in bed.
Her bedroom mirror, just across from the foot of her bed, was fogged over—on the inside.
She stood.
Her reflection didn't.
It smiled at her. Slowly.
She gasped and backed away.
That's when she saw him again.
He was standing in the reflection, not the room.
And yet she felt his presence behind her, like a hand resting cold on the back of her neck.
He leaned forward, hat casting a long shadow.
"You remind me of her."
Her stomach flipped.
"No—no. Get out."
His grin widened, splitting skin.
"She fought too. Not like this. She screamed.
You pretend you're not afraid."
"But you're already mine."
The mirror began to ripple.
His fingers pressed through the surface like it was water. Cold air flooded the room. Her breath came in ragged gasps.
She tried to scream, but her voice stayed stuck in her throat, trembling like something trying to claw its way out.
He stepped through. Fully.
The mirror didn't crack.
It welcomed him.
Jared found her the next morning.
The door was unlocked.
Elise sat on the floor, cross-legged, facing the mirror.
She was smiling.
But the smile didn't reach her eyes.
"Hey," he said gently. "You good?"
She didn't blink.
The sketchbook lay open in her lap. Her pencil moved, slowly sketching nothing but black circles.
He stepped closer. "Elise?"
Her head tilted, just barely.
Her lips parted.
A whisper—dry, like dead leaves:
"She's not here anymore."
Jared blinked. "What?"
But it wasn't Elise who had spoken.
It was her reflection.
And in that reflection, standing just behind her, was the man in the black hat—grinning, dripping ink, one hand on her shoulder.
The mirror cracked.
The lightbulb exploded overhead.
And the room went dark.
[EPILOGUE]
You're still here. Reading.
You scrolled back up at least once.
You looked into the description.
Now you remember the man's face.
You can see it.
Can't you?
If you look at your reflection tonight—your window, your phone screen, your TV when it's off—
Don't stare too long.
Because if you do?
You'll see him.
And when you do…
Don't scream.
That's how he knows you're ready to come in.