Every Night, My Mirror Shows Someone Standing Behind Me. But I Live Alone.

It started small — a shimmer, a trick of light. I’d be brushing my hair before bed and swear I saw a shadow pass behind me.

At first, I blamed the city lights through my window, the exhaustion from work. But one night, when I turned around, there was no shadow — only stillness. Yet, in the reflection, someone stood close enough to breathe against my neck.

I shut my eyes, counted to ten, and opened them again. The mirror was empty.

The next morning, I tried to take a photo to prove it to myself. But when I checked my phone, there she was — a faint outline, a woman standing just behind me, smiling gently like she knew me.

Last night, for the first time, I whispered, “Who are you?”

And she moved her lips in the reflection, forming two words that chilled me to the bone.
My name.
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The Reflection’s Whisper

I’ve always been a creature of routine. Ava Thompson, 29, accountant in a high-rise firm overlooking Chicago’s glittering skyline. My apartment on the 14th floor of the Elmwood Towers was my sanctuary: minimalist decor, no pets, no roommates since college. I lived alone by choice—after a string of bad breakups, solitude felt safe. Evenings meant unwinding with a glass of wine, brushing my long auburn hair in front of the antique mirror in the bathroom. It was a thrift find, ornate gold frame chipped in places, reflecting the soft glow of vanity bulbs.

It started innocently enough, three months ago. A shimmer in the glass as I applied moisturizer— like a ripple on water, distorting my green eyes for a split second. Then a shadow, fleeting, passing behind my reflection. I’d spin around, heart skipping: nothing but the towel rack and steam from the shower. “City lights,” I muttered, blaming the neon bleed from the street below. Or fatigue—12-hour days crunching numbers left me seeing things.

But it escalated. One Tuesday night, after a brutal deadline, I leaned in close to pluck a stray eyebrow. There— in the mirror— a figure loomed just over my shoulder. Tall, slender, with hair like mine but longer, wavier. Close enough that I felt a phantom breath on my neck, raising goosebumps. I whipped around: empty room, door locked as always. Back to the glass—gone. Just me, wide-eyed and pale.

I shut my eyes, counted to ten like a child hiding from monsters. Opened them: normal. Laughed it off, popped a melatonin, slept with the lights on.

The next morning, paranoia nipped. I grabbed my phone, set it to selfie mode, and snapped a quick pic in the mirror. Proof, I thought—show my therapist if it persisted. At work, during lunch, I checked the gallery. My face stared back, but behind me… her. A faint outline, translucent like a double exposure. The woman, smiling gently, head tilted as if amused. Same jawline, same freckle on the collarbone I’d always hated. But her eyes—knowing, ancient.

Deleted it immediately, hands shaking. Told myself glitch, app error. But that night, I covered the mirror with a towel. Slept fitfully, dreaming of whispers in fog.

Days blurred. The figure appeared nightly now, bolder. Brushing teeth: she’d mimic my movements, a beat behind. Flossing: her hand would reach out, fingers brushing my reflected shoulder. I stopped looking directly, using the periphery. Friends noticed my jumpiness—“You okay, Ava? You look haunted.” Therapist upped sessions: “Stress-induced hallucinations. Try grounding techniques.”

I researched online: doppelgangers, mirror ghosts, folklore of reflections stealing souls. Bought a new mirror—modern, frameless. Same thing. The apartment’s history? Built in the ’20s, a suicide in 1925—a woman named Eleanor Voss, jumped from the 14th floor after losing her child. Coincidence. I sage-smudged, played white noise. Nothing worked.

Last night, exhaustion won. I confronted it. Stood before the glass at midnight, lights dim, wine forgotten. She was there, clearer than ever—solid in reflection, ethereal smile. “Who are you?” I whispered, voice cracking. “What do you want?”

Her lips moved. No sound in the room, but in the mirror, words formed slow, deliberate: “Ava… Thompson.”

My name. My full name. Chills iced my veins. I stumbled back, towel rack clattering. “How?” I gasped. She faded as I blinked, but the smile lingered like a promise.

Couldn’t sleep. Dawn found me researching deeper: Eleanor Voss—unmarried, no child recorded. But adoption papers surfaced in old archives: a daughter given up in 1924, named Ava. My grandmother’s name, passed down. Family lore whispered of a great-aunt who “fell” from a building, tragedy hushed.

The pieces clicked horrifically. Not a ghost—me, from another time. Or a guardian? That night, I uncovered Mom’s old locket in storage: inside, a tiny photo of Eleanor, resembling me exactly. “Your great-grandmother,” Mom confirmed over frantic call. “Died young, mysterious. Said to watch over the women in our line.”

Hallucination? Inheritance? The figure never harmed, just watched, smiled. Protective spirit of my ancestor, manifesting in mirrors—portals, some cultures say.

Now, I don’t cover the glass. She appears, and I nod. “Hello, Eleanor.” Peace settles. In a world of alone, I’m not entirely.

The mirror shows family after all—across veils, whispering names to remind: you’re never truly solo.