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 teenager. 
Phoenix. Twenty twenty-five. October thirtieth.

It started as streaks. The mirror in my room fogged every night even with the window open. I wiped it clean, but the streaks came back, spelling crooked shapes.

Last night, they spelled my name. I pressed my hand against the glass. Another hand pressed back.

Not warm. Not cold. Not even skin. Slick, like touching the inside of your own mouth.

She leaned close. My face, but different. Sharper, hungrier. She mouthed, Tomorrow.

That’s tonight. I covered the mirror with duct tape, cardboard, blankets. Doesn’t matter. I still hear her, tapping from the other side. Counting down.

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 journalist.
New York. Twenty twenty-five. October twenty-ninth.

I was writing an article on mass hysteria. That’s what my editor called it—mirrors trending on social feeds, blurry videos, clickbait. I called sources, filed quotes, drafted paragraphs that sounded reasonable.

Then I stayed late in the newsroom. The windows had gone black, city lights bouncing back at me. My reflection stayed behind after I leaned away. Sat there at the desk, typing.

I crept closer. The words on his screen weren’t mine. He was writing about me. Every line a detail I’d never shared—my habits, my failures, things I’d buried.

When I banged the glass, the reflection turned and smiled. Typed faster. And the words appeared on my own screen, letter by letter, even though my hands hovered still.

I shut the laptop. But screens are mirrors, too. And every time I open one, the cursor blinks like a heartbeat, waiting for him to start again.