When a mirror isn't a mirror

The reflection that stayed

After 15 years, I returned to my mother's house in the Yorkshire Moors. The last time we spoke was around then, severing the final umbilical cord of our relationship.

My childhood home, once palatial in my mind with its large, expansive view of the landscape from the kitchen window, had begun to fall into disrepair. The wooden ceiling beams had started to rot, turning a blackish brown. It creaked more than usual, the sound echoing through the halls.

The damp, cloying scent of mould lingered in the air, thick and musty, sticking to the back of my throat. Each breath felt heavy, as though the house itself pressed down on my lungs.

At night, the wind would find its way through the crevices in the brickwork, making it whistle. Except it wasn’t always a whistle. Sometimes, it sounded like a moan, like the house sobbing.

I wrapped myself in blankets in a bid to stave off the winter chill. It felt like the final nail in the coffin, both literally and figuratively, as my mother had left me with decades of clutter and emotional turmoil to sort through.

My grandfather had bequeathed the strange domicile to my mother, even though she had barely seen her own father in years. But estrangement seemed to be hereditary in our family. Like my mother, he had left behind his own layers of depression, hoarding them in the house like a cloak of despair.

While the dimensions of the estate were impressive, the endless bitterness made me melancholic and lonely as a child. With just the two of us occupying the cavernous abode, we often spent hours in separate parts of the house.

I spent much of my time in one of the larger bedrooms, pretending to be a princess in a castle with my four-poster bed. The upholstered burgundy walls and high ceilings made it seem real, and I would either gaze longingly out at the cloudy hillside or into the many mirrors that surrounded the room. The funhouse effect made it feel like I had my own audience of courtiers.

"Hi, Sarah," I'd say to my reflection as she waved back. The little girl with a paper crown pulled faces in dozens of surfaces, making me chuckle.

Every day was much the same, though the story would change—from escaping dragons to running away from my mother’s dark moods. I found myself speaking to the mirrors about all sorts of things.

"How was your day?"

"Did you do anything interesting?"

"Why are you laughing at me?"

It comforted me to know they were there, even though my mother became increasingly irate over my self-imposed isolation and my need to be away from her.

When she told me she had seen me talking to the large, gilded, baroque-style mirror, brushing my hair and chattering away, she insisted it had spoken back.

"I heard it say, 'I know how you feel'," she told me, but I was sure it was just her medication playing with her nerves. I had never noticed anything myself. Perhaps I didn’t want to.

Another time, she claimed that when my back was turned, she had seen a little hand—one with the same crescent-shaped birthmark as mine—reach for my black hair. That time, I used spare bedsheets from the other bedrooms to cover up the frames.

We never spoke about it after that, and my mother retreated further into herself.

Still, there were moments when I would catch my own reflection lingering a fraction of a second too long. At night, I would hear something faint—a rhythmic tapping, like fingertips against glass.

Thankfully, I started secondary school, making a handful of friends for the first time. I spent many afternoons playing in their gardens, imitating the latest fashion trends and girl groups.

Eventually, I gave in and invited them over, without really preparing them for the eeriness of the house or the queerness of my mother.

"Wow, your house is epic!" Sandra said at first, before quickly changing her tune.

"This is so cool—it’s kind of spooky!" Geeta added, and I couldn’t deny it. It had all the hallmarks of Dracula’s castle.

They stared at the covered mirrors, their faces showing small signs of a grimace before they turned to each other in repulsion.

"Umm, Sarah, what’s up with this? It’s kind of weird," Sandra said, without sugarcoating it, like any other child her age.

"They’re my granddad’s mirrors… we keep them, umm, covered for their protection," I lied. "They’re antique, you see."

The tweens shrugged it off, thinking this was completely plausible, and continued running from room to room, playing hide and seek.

The first time they re-entered my bedroom, they hadn’t noticed that one of the covers had fallen off. The next time, three of them lay on the floor. We halted abruptly in front of the room, almost crashing into each other.

"Don’t go in!" Geeta shrieked, clawing at my dress from behind.

Sandra bolted from my part of the house altogether, heading towards my mother, naively thinking she would help.

Before I could turn around and placate Geeta, I saw her pointing beyond my shoulder, her face contorted in a rictus of pure terror.

She trembled. "Do you see her?"

I turned slowly, step by step.

I saw Geeta’s dumbstruck face pointing in the mirror—and the back of my head. I stood, completely perplexed.

I waved my hand in front of my face, but the other me remained still, staring at Geeta.

In a moment of brazen courage, I strode right up to the mirror, my small frame filling the reflection.

But my reflection moved backwards instead, and all I could see was my own black hair, centimetres from my nose.

Then, I felt a small hand on the back of my neck.

I screeched, "Geeta, get off me, I swear!" tugging at the nape of my dress.

I spun around, almost losing my footing, and saw that Geeta was nowhere to be seen.

But through the corner of my eye, I saw my reflection now facing me.

My heart pounded, every thump like a funeral march.

I sprinted towards the door as the covers on each and every mirror slid down.

Dozens of versions of me began running towards me.

As I grabbed the door handle, their hands all reached out in unison—just as I flew through the doorway, slamming it shut behind me.

I never slept there again.

At school, I became known as "ghost girl," as Sandra and Geeta relayed their terrifying experience at my house to everyone and sundry.

My mother fared no better—the darkness of the house consumed her, and I was sent to stay with my aunt in Kent.

I never told her about what had happened, and I never needed to. She left me to my own devices.

After all these years, I have no idea what my mother did there alone with the shadows.

But I’m here now, packing everything away, to be auctioned off or torn down by developers.

I’m finally in my room again, and the covers are still there. I’m trembling, I won’t lie. A wave of nausea washes over me.

It’s time, I think, as I step towards the gilded, life-size mirror.

The white covers have yellowed, their edges frayed. A thick layer of dust coats the surface, and as I pull it down, I cough as the fine particles fill my lungs, blurring my vision for a second.

There she is.

Brushing my hair.

My mother—and the other me.

My mother stares at me, the same age she was when I left her, while my own reflection is still 15.

I should be more frightened. I should run away.

But for the first time, I understand—my mother is finally happy, with the daughter who stayed.

The one who didn’t leave her in the dark.

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