“Mirrors have always creeped me out. I don’t, of course, believe in ghosts or possessions and all those mirror stories, but think about it. How many dead people have looked themselves in that mirror you found in the attic of that house you bought? How many people have died on their beds, their mirror being the last thing that “witnessed” them alive? Sit in front of your reflection when alone and stare for a while. You will feel like you are being watched. How can a thing really show you to yourself? How can there be two of you? Of course, science can explain it. But think about it, if you ever wanted to hide somewhere, wouldn’t it be behind something that science would be able to debunk? Somewhere that the only thing you needed to do to not get caught is imitate one’s movements? The perfect plan. I can’t talk to anyone about it, though,as they’d think I am crazy. Just like when they thought Galileo was crazy… Ah, all I can do is brush it off my head. But how can I? I look into the mirror and see my wife, admiring her hair while brushing them, singing in a low voice while I was falling asleep on the bed right behind her after a hard day at work. But she is gone. Heart attack… give me a break, she was young and never had any health problems, the only night I came home very late I found her on the floor with the brush in her hand. Now I always sleep with that brush next to me, on her side of the bed, right on her pillow. I don’t trust mirrors. I don’t trust our reflections. I will get rid of that bedroom mirror tomorrow. I cannot act normal anymore, I cannot pretend there is nothing wrong.”
Ross went to bed that night. He closed his eyes and feel asleep shortly after. He saw something, though. He was in front of the mirror again, looking at it, his own reflection, holding his wife’s brush on his right hand and having an evil smile while looking back at Ross. On its left hand, Ross’s reflection was holding a knife. “Your turn, Ross,” it said, and stabbed itself on the throat. Ross opened his eyes.in shock. It was a dream, just a bad dream. He looked to his left, his wife’s side, to find comfort by looking at her favourite brush, but it wasn’t there.