लाइब्रेरी में जोड़ें

My Story

I’m writing this down in this journal because if I don’t, I may go insane. You may think me insane after reading my story. I wish I was.

My name is Jared Baldwin, and I am twenty-two years old. I recently moved into a brand new apartment in rural Maine. Everything was going great the first two weeks, I was having no problems unpacking my boxes and everything seemed to fit nicely. It looked as if everything I had bought had been bought to furnish this apartment. The power company had forgotten to shut off the electricity, cable, and wifi since the last tenants had moved out. Or perhaps, now that I think about it, they had left so fast the company never knew they had even moved. I can’t blame them.

The first night sleeping in the apartment, once I had completely furnished it and gotten everything set up the way I wanted it, was fantastic. I had no problems adjusting to the new environment whatsoever. I fell asleep within five minutes of getting into bed. It was strange, especially for me, since I usually have trouble falling asleep anywhere I’m not used to. I had this feeling that I was meant to live in that apartment, though it was run-down and in a completely isolated area. I don’t do well with isolation, though it didn’t bother me in the apartment.

The second day went well, though I noticed something strange about the bathroom mirror. It had been painted over with black paint, not an inch of mirror could be seen through the coat. A sledgehammer rested on the tile as though someone had just dropped it and left after considering smashing the mirror, too concerned about leaving the apartment to pick it up before they moved away.

Of course, I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I was rather excited to have gotten a free sledgehammer.
A few weeks went by without incident, and I was completely happy in my new abode. However, strange things were starting to happen.

One night, around three, I woke up with the urgent need to use the restroom. I shuffled in and stopped dead in my tracks. Though the mirror was covered with black paint, a faint silver glow showed beneath the cracks in the coat. I was fascinated, and overwhelmed with the desire to scrape off the paint and shove my hand through the mirror. I thought I could hear faint whispers coming from the other side, beckoning me to clear the mirror of its black cover.

I came to my senses and realized that what was happening was not fascinating at all, but frightening. The voices behind the mirror became agitated, and a split second later both the glow and the voices were gone. I closed my eyes and shook my head, and when I opened them again I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had been dreaming and had merely sleepwalked into the bathroom.
I used the restroom and returned to my bed without giving the mirror a second thought.

The next night the same thing happened, though I noticed some of the paint had chipped off the mirror. A small hole in the paint, about three inches tall and two inches wide, revealed a sliver of mirror, which glowed and pulsated with a sort of silver electricity. The voices, soothing and inviting, called me and begged me to remove the paint from the mirror.

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again I found myself in bed. I glanced at the clock, 7:43 am. Had I dreamed the whole thing? I had a nagging doubt in my mind that maybe what was happening was not a dream at all, but common sense put that idea to rest for a while.

A few more nights passed without incident.

I awoke once more and shuffled into the bathroom in the middle of the night, as I had done twice before. This time a very large amount of paint had been removed from the mirror. A hole about a foot tall and four inches wide had been made in the paint. The pulsating, electric glow permeated the surface of the mirror and reached out into the bathroom. Tendrils of smoke trickled from the mirror. Once again, the voices pleaded me to free the mirror from its coating. Once again I found myself back in bed, only to find that it was the next morning.

I went into the bathroom and saw that an even larger hole in the paint had been made overnight. I looked at my hands and saw black under my nails and staining my fingers.

God, had I been the one removing the paint at night? The thought frightened me, and that night I bolted the bathroom door shut from the outside. The previous tenants had placed the lock there, no doubt for the same reason I had.

When I awoke that night, I unlocked the deadbolt and went into the bathroom. The voices, more inviting than ever and making me feel like I was meant to do nothing else but free whatever hid behind that mirror, once again demanded I remove the paint. I obeyed, though a very deep level of my subconscious screamed for me to stop. I suppressed it and let the sheer pleasure of removing the paint drive me to do my duty.

I awoke the next morning horrified to see that I had removed all the paint from the mirror. Not a shrapnel of black remained on the mirror, and my hands were completely black. What had I done? I was afraid to sleep that night.

A few weeks passed without incident.

One night, waking up around three as I had done many times before, I went into the bathroom at the request of the voices coming through the bathroom door. They were louder now, as one would expect, for they were no longer muffled by the paint. What I saw terrified me more than anything I had ever before experienced. The thing that lived in the mirror was not pleasant at all. The silver glow was more intense than ever, surrounding the outside of the mirror. Tendrils of smoke poured out from the glass, and the creature inside grinned at me, revealing rows of jagged fangs. My heart nearly exploded through my chest. The voices that had before been so kind and pleasant now sounded menacing and sinister. The creature, hidden by shadow, climbed through the glass, chanting my name.

I ran, out of the bathroom and into the living room. Hearing it close behind, laughing and taking its time, I bolted out the front door and didn’t look back. I didn’t worry about my belongings or about leaving my door unlocked. I didn’t even grab my car keys, I just ran.

Now, as I take refuge in a neighbor’s home, I can’t help but feel as though I’m not safe. I released it from the mirror, and I know it will hunt me until it pulls me into the mirror with it. I have to get away from Maine. Tomorrow I will be moving to California. I don’t care about my belongings, I just want to be safe.


It has been two months since I last wrote in this notebook. I am now living in a very small apartment in southern California, and am working in a restaurant to pay the rent. Though I can barely afford to buy groceries, I am happy that I no longer have to worry about the demon in the mirror.

Though last night I thought I heard a soft, lovely voice calling to me from my bathroom while I slept. That couldn’t have happened, though, I’m probably just still having nightmares because of what happened in Maine. It couldn’t have followed me here, right?