NOTE: You can listen to these stories at my podcast page, via Patreon (paid subscribers get bonus content and early access), and on YouTube. 

A stylist
Los Angeles. Twenty twenty-five. October thirteenth.

People pay me to make them shine. I tease, I spray, I polish until the camera loves them. But lately the mirrors love them too much.

A model came in for a shoot. Tall, perfect bone structure, cheekbones like blades. I turned her toward the mirror. She gasped. Said she looked flawless. Too flawless.

Her reflection winked. She didn’t.

We both froze. The wink wasn’t coy. It was knowing. Intimate. Like a co-conspirator.

She stormed out, muttering about hallucinations. I cleaned up alone. When I glanced at the mirror, my reflection mouthed the same phrase she’d said, syllable for syllable. Voice without sound.

I haven’t booked new clients. I keep the mirrors covered. But the covers slip. And I swear, at night, I hear laughter, muffled, like someone rehearsing jokes without me.

NOTE: You can listen to these stories at my podcast page, via Patreon (paid subscribers get bonus content and early access), and on YouTube. 

A cop
Detroit. Twenty twenty-five. October twelfth.

Dispatch sent me to a break-in. Corner shop. Owner swore someone was inside. When I got there, the glass was shattered, alarms wailing. But inside? Empty.

I checked the aisles. Nothing. Then I saw the security mirror in the corner—the big round kind. My reflection wasn’t me. Not exactly. He was a little taller. Smiling when I wasn’t.

I raised my flashlight. He raised his. Beam against beam. For a second I thought it was just angle, distortion. Then he mouthed my name.

Not “officer.” Not “sir.” My name.

I left faster than I’d like to admit. Told the shop owner it was clear. Filed it as a false alarm. But I know what I saw.

And now, every time I check my cruiser’s side mirror, I expect to see him waiting.