I’m a software developer in Bangalore, twenty-eight years old, and I’ve always been a night owl. I mean, when you’re debugging code until 2 AM anyway, why not hit the gym after? That’s how I ended up at PowerFit 24/7 in Koramangala at four in the morning on a Tuesday. Looking back, I should have known something was wrong the moment I swiped my card and heard how loud the beep echoed in the empty building.
The gym was dead silent except for the hum of the AC. I liked it that way, honestly. No crowds, no waiting for equipment, no judgment. Just me, my playlist, and the mirrors.
I started with bench press, like always. The gym had these massive mirrors covering the entire front wall—you know, the kind where you can watch your form from any angle. I was halfway through my second set when I noticed him.
A guy. Standing about fifteen feet behind me. Matching my movements exactly.
I paused mid-rep. He paused too. I lowered the bar. He lowered his arms.
“Maybe I was just seeing my own reflection weird,” I muttered, sitting up. But when I turned around, the space behind me was completely empty. Just rows of treadmills collecting dust in the dim light.
I felt my heart pound a little harder. I walked to where I’d seen him—nothing. The floor wasn’t even scuffed. I checked the locker room door. Locked from the inside, just like I’d left it.
“Probably just tired,” I said aloud. My voice sounded too small in all that space.
I moved to the squat rack, shaking it off. About ten minutes later, I was loading plates when I caught movement in the mirror again. The same figure. Closer this time. Maybe ten feet behind me now.
He was doing squats. Matching my rhythm perfectly—down, pause, up. Down, pause, up.
I spun around fast enough to make myself dizzy.
Nothing.
I should have left right then. I know that now. But I didn’t want to seem crazy, you know? I’d just renewed my annual membership. Besides, the rational part of my brain kept insisting it was the lighting, or exhaustion, or maybe the pre-workout was stronger than usual.
I decided to do one more exercise. Dumbbell curls, facing away from the mirrors this time. If I couldn’t see them, I couldn’t see him, right?
Wrong.
The gym had smaller mirrors mounted on the side walls too. Halfway through my set, I caught him in my peripheral vision. He was standing maybe six feet away now. Close enough that I could see details I wish I hadn’t noticed.
His workout clothes were identical to mine. Same black tank top. Same grey shorts. But his face—something wasn’t right about his face. The proportions were off, like a drawing someone had copied but gotten slightly wrong. His eyes opened wider than they should. His smile stretched too far.
And he was staring directly at me. Not at his own reflection. At me.
“Hello?” My voice cracked. “Is someone there?”
The figure in the mirror didn’t respond. Just kept curling invisible dumbbells. Up, down. Up, down.
I dropped my weights—they hit the rubber floor with a loud thud that made me jump. I walked straight to the mirror, my hands shaking. I pressed my palm against the glass. It was cold. Solid. Just a normal mirror.
But he was still there, standing right behind me now. So close I should have felt his breath on my neck.
I turned.
Nothing.
I turned back to the mirror.
He was touching my shoulder.
I felt it. I swear to God, I felt pressure on my shoulder. Like fingers pressing into my muscle. But when I looked down, there was nothing there. No hand. No person. Just my own shoulder, completely untouched.
That’s when I ran.
I didn’t grab my bag. Didn’t log out. Didn’t even close the locker room door. I just ran for the exit, my footsteps echoing like gunshots. Behind me, I heard other footsteps. Heavy. Matching my pace exactly.
The front door was locked.
My heart dropped. I’d swiped in, obviously, but you needed to swipe out too—security feature. My card was in my bag. In the locker room. Where the footsteps were coming from.
I spun around. The hallway was empty. But in the reflection of the glass door, I could see him. Walking toward me. Not rushing. Just walking. Like he had all the time in the world.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please, I don’t—”
He lunged.
I don’t remember much after that. Just pain. Being thrown—or throwing myself, I guess—against the walls, the equipment, the mirrors. Glass shattering. My shoulder slamming into the metal frame of the lat pulldown machine. The taste of blood in my mouth.
I woke up in the hospital six hours later. The gym manager, Rajesh, was there. So were two cops. They showed me the security footage on a tablet.
It showed me working out alone. Completely alone. Then, around 4:47 AM, I just… started fighting. Throwing myself against walls. Punching the air. Grabbing my own throat with both hands and squeezing.
The doctors said it might have been a psychotic break. Lack of sleep, they said. Too much caffeine. Stress.
I let them believe that. It was easier than explaining.
But I know what I saw. I felt those hands on me. I saw him getting closer, exercise by exercise, until there was nowhere left to run.
I canceled my membership. Haven’t been back to any gym since. Now I work out at home, in my bedroom. No mirrors. I removed them all.
To this day, I still can’t look at my reflection for too long. Because sometimes, when I’m not paying attention, I see him standing behind me. A little closer each time.
And one day, I know he’ll be close enough to touch.
