The Girl in the Reflection

My sister used to talk to her “mirror friend” when she was little. We thought it was cute—until she said her friend told her things she shouldn’t know, like how our great-aunt really died, or where my mom kept her wedding ring. It was harmless until the night I caught my sister just standing in front of the mirror, not blinking, lips moving silently. When I asked what she was doing, she said, “She’s teaching me how to get out.”

We took the mirror down the next day. Locked it in the garage. But since then, I’ve seen a girl in the bathroom mirror—a few inches too tall to be my sister, skin too pale, eyes too wide. She’s never moving when I look directly at her. But sometimes, she’s not copying me.