The Mirror’s Laughter

Eliza found the gilded mirror at a yard sale, its frame chipped but the glass unbroken. The seller mumbled, “Don’t smile at it after dark,” but she laughed it off—until her reflection grinned wider than her own mouth that night.
She leaned closer, breath fogging the glass. The reflection’s eyes narrowed, pupils slitting like a snake’s. “Beautiful,” it hissed, a voice like shattered glass. Eliza stumbled back; she hadn’t spoken.
By midnight, the mirror dripped black liquid. The reflection clawed at its throat, miming suffocation, while Eliza felt a tightness in her own. When she covered her mouth, the reflection smiled, teeth sharp as razors.
“Join me,” it crooned. The glass rippled, and a hand burst through, gray and clammy, gripping her wrist. She screamed, but the reflection’s mouth moved silently, mirroring her terror.
Dawn found her slumped against the wall, the mirror now blank. But in every window, every puddle, her reflection winked—grinning that too-wide grin, waiting for night to fall again.