I heard footsteps above me—but I live alone.
The sound came slow, dragging through the ceiling like someone pacing in circles.
Old wood groaned, dust fell from the corners.
At first, I thought it was wind.
Until the pacing stopped.
Right above where I stood.
The house had been empty for decades before I moved in.
The locals called it The Turner Place.
Cheap rent, they said, because “people don’t stay long.”
I laughed it off.
Until that first night.
It began with the mirror.
A small, cracked oval one I found in the attic when I was unpacking.
Its frame was carved with roses, dark and peeling, as if burned by time.
I brought it downstairs—mistake number one.
At dinner, I caught my reflection move a heartbeat late.
Not much.
Just enough.
Like it had to remember what it was supposed to do.
I stared at it until my eyes watered.
Then I turned the mirror face-down.
But that night, I dreamed I was back in the attic.
The boards moaned.
Dust swirled like breath.
And something whispered my name—not loud, just close.
When I woke, the mirror was standing upright again.
I told myself I’d imagined it.
Stress.
New house.
Old pipes.
The usual excuses people make before the haunting begins.
By the third night, the footsteps had a rhythm.
Two steps… pause.
Two more… drag.
Like someone walking with one bare foot and one shoe.
Sometimes I heard humming too—soft and tuneless.
A woman’s voice, just above the ceiling.
I stopped sleeping in my bedroom.
Started crashing on the couch with the TV on low.
Light kept the dark from feeling alive.
But even there, I’d see movement in the glass reflection of the screen—
someone passing behind me.
Always when I looked away.
One morning, I found footprints in the attic dust.
Small ones, like a child’s.
They circled the spot where the mirror had been.
There was also a faint outline of a chair.
I hadn’t brought one up there.
Something inside me—curiosity or stupidity—made me whisper,
“Who’s there?”
The air didn’t move.
But the dust—
it rose.
Like a sigh.
That night, the humming returned.
Clearer this time.
It was the same melody I’d heard faintly from the attic before.
But now it was closer, almost behind the walls.
I pressed my ear to the plaster.
A soft voice said, “You found my mirror.”
I jumped back.
Silence.
I didn’t sleep.
By dawn, I’d packed a box.
I told myself I’d leave.
But when I reached the front door, the knob wouldn’t turn.
It wasn’t locked—it just wouldn’t move.
Like the metal had frozen.
My breath fogged, even though the heater was on.
Then came the smell.
Sweet, rotten perfume.
And a sound I can’t forget—
a single knock, from inside the attic.
I ran to the base of the stairs, heart racing.
The hatch above was slightly open.
It swayed, slow, like something had gone through it.
I told myself, don’t go up there.
But fear does strange things.
Sometimes, it pulls you closer to what you should run from.
I grabbed a flashlight and climbed.
Each step moaned.
The air grew colder with every inch.
When my head cleared the attic floor, the beam caught the mirror.
It was hanging now—
not where I’d left it,
but from the rafters.
Swinging slightly.
In its glass, I saw the outline of a woman standing behind me.
She was pale.
Her hair hung over her face like cobwebs.
And when I turned—
no one.
I aimed the flashlight back at the mirror.
Now it showed only me.
But my reflection’s lips moved.
Three words.
“Don’t go down.”
The attic door slammed.
The bulb burst.
The flashlight flickered.
I screamed and yanked the hatch, but it wouldn’t open.
Something heavy slid across the floor—right behind me.
Then came the footsteps again.
Slow.
Closer.
Stopping just before my shadow.
I turned the light toward the sound—
nothing.
Then, a whisper:
“She can’t find me if you stay.”
The voice was different—childlike.
Frightened.
From the far corner, behind a pile of old trunks.
I crept closer.
The beam caught a shape.
A small wooden rocking horse, moving on its own.
And beside it—a journal.
The cover was brittle.
On the first page: Eliza Turner, 1874.
The entries were strange.
She wrote about a woman who “lives in the mirror.”
Said the lady “copied her too well,”
and that one night “Father locked her in the attic.”
The last entry read:
“Father says if she finds me, I’ll forget who I am.”
The rocking horse stopped.
Silence swallowed the air.
Then came the soft scrape of something crawling behind me.
I didn’t turn.
Didn’t breathe.
Until a cold hand gripped my wrist.
It was small.
Like a child’s.
And trembling.
The girl’s voice whispered again,
“She’s awake.”
I looked into the mirror.
Two reflections stared back.
Mine—and hers.
The pale woman.
Her mouth curled into a slow, wrong smile.
She stepped forward—
and my reflection stepped back,
as if trying to hide behind her.
The girl’s hand tightened.
“Don’t let her take your face,” she cried.
Then the light died.
Everything after that came in flashes—
a whisper in my ear,
a gust of icy breath,
the feeling of being watched from inside my skin.
When the light returned, I was standing downstairs.
Morning light leaked through the curtains.
The attic hatch was shut tight.
My wrist was black with frost.
I checked the mirror—it hung in the hallway now.
My reflection looked… normal.
Tired, pale, but normal.
Until it blinked twice.
Once for me.
Once for her.
I smashed it.
Glass shattered everywhere.
But behind the shards, I saw wood—
rotted boards nailed across another mirror, hidden inside the wall.
And carved into the frame:
LET HER REST.
I moved out that same day.
Didn’t look back.
But sometimes, when I walk past old houses,
I hear faint footsteps above me again.
And once—
in a shop window reflection—
I saw a little girl watching me.
She mouthed something.
“Don’t go down.”
Now, every mirror I pass seems to pause a beat too long.
Like it’s waiting to see if I’ll blink first.
And every night, I hear the faint sound of pacing above my bed.
Two steps.
Pause.
Two more.
Drag.
I try to tell myself it’s nothing.
Just my mind.
Just wind.
But last night, I woke to see a faint glow under the ceiling hatch.
A sliver of light, pulsing softly.
And when I listened—
there was humming again.
A woman’s voice.
The same tune from the attic.
This time, though, it came from my reflection in the window.
And when I whispered, “Who are you?”
the reflection smiled and said,
“You found my mirror.”
