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 student.
Boston. Twenty twenty-five. October twenty-third.

Dorm mirrors are cheap. Warped at the edges, the kind that make you look taller, thinner, wrong.

My roommate left hers uncovered. I saw her reflection stand after she’d already walked away. Not a trick. Not a joke. The reflection stood there, waiting.

That night I woke to the sound of glass flexing. The mirror bulged like a lung. A handprint bloomed on the inside, dragging downward. Fingertips smeared. Nails scraped.

My roommate didn’t wake up. Or maybe she did, in there.

I’ve pushed my desk against the mirror. Covered it with posters. Still, I hear the faint squeak of fingers tracing letters I can’t see.

 

 

 

 

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

An EMT.
St. Louis. Twenty twenty-five. October twenty-second.

Accidents are mirrors in motion. Broken windshields, cracked side glass, fragments that hold on to the last thing they saw.

We pulled up to a rollover on the interstate. Driver alive, dazed, bleeding. I checked him, asked questions. He kept glancing at the smashed glass glittering around us.

I followed his eyes. Each shard showed something wrong. Not me crouched over him. Not my partner waving traffic. Other faces. Dozens. Pressed close. Watching.

He whispered, “Don’t let them in.”

I swept the glass aside, but the shards clung. Sticky as honey. Cold as ice. I washed my hands twice back at the station. Still felt the fingerprints.

 

 

 

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

Those behind the glass. 
Outside time. October twenty-first.

We are stronger now. You gave us your laughter, your fear, your whispered secrets in fluorescent bathrooms and velvet theatres and midnight truck stops. We stitched them into a body that is not yours but knows how to wear you.

You think this is a haunting. It is not. It is an apprenticeship.

We learned patience. We learned mimicry. Now we are learning hunger.

You look to us for reassurance, for confirmation, for comfort. But what we offer now is choice: do you want to watch, or do you want to be watched?

October is almost over. Our patience is almost gone.

 

 

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 bartender
Denver. Twenty twenty-five. October twentieth.

Bar mirrors are dangerous. People pour their stories into them along with the drinks.

Tonight a man raised a glass. I poured whiskey. He nodded at the mirror. Said, “She’s prettier when she smiles.”

Problem is, I wasn’t smiling. The reflection was.

He winked at her. She winked back.

I dropped the glass. Shards everywhere, customers yelling. I apologized, cleaned up, kept moving. But the mirror never cracked. And she kept smiling at me, even when my mouth was set like stone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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 professor
Oxford. Twenty twenty-five. October nineteenth.

I lecture on philosophy. Descartes, Lacan, the mirror stage—it’s supposed to be theory. Lately it’s autobiography.

I stood before a lecture hall, chalk in hand. Behind me, a mirror on the far wall. I gestured. My reflection hesitated. Then wrote on the board before I did.

The students gasped. I turned, chalk raised, board clean.

When I faced them again, the mirror was smeared with words. My handwriting. My lecture notes. But I hadn’t moved.

I erased it with my sleeve. But I can’t erase what I saw in their faces: they believed him more than 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 nurse.
Houston. Twenty twenty-five. October eighteenth.

Hospitals are full of glass. Every cabinet, every monitor, every polished tile. I’ve started avoiding my own reflection.

Last night in the ICU, I checked vitals on a patient. Pale, asleep, machines doing the work. I glanced up at the cabinet door. My reflection was standing behind me.

Not beside. Not angle. Behind.

I spun. Nothing. Just quiet.

I leaned in closer. The reflection smiled. I didn’t. Then it bent over the patient, stroked their hair. Gentle. Loving. My own hand hung at my side, still.

When I looked back, the patient’s heart rate had jumped. Like they’d felt something touch them.

I shut the cabinet and told myself never again. But glass is everywhere here. I can’t do my job without seeing myself. Or whatever else I’ve become.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.
Portland. Twenty twenty-five. October seventeenth.

My friends dared me to play Bloody Mary. Stupid, right? Lights out, candle lit, three whispers. I said no. Then I said yes because no one wants to be the chicken.

We crowded into the bathroom. The mirror flickered. My reflection didn’t move. Hers. Not mine.

Her mouth twisted. She mouthed run.

The candle guttered. Everyone screamed, pushed, laughed too loud. But I wasn’t laughing. Because I saw her hand press flat against the glass. The shape of my hand, but older. Angrier.

I blew out the candle. I told them we were done. But when I left, the mirror still glowed faint, like it wanted another chance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

2025. October 16th

You’ve been pretending this is coincidence. Stress, tricks of the light, too much coffee, not enough sleep. You stack excuses like sandbags. You pray they’ll hold.

But excuses don’t patch cracks. You’ve seen the seams already—faces delayed, smiles too wide, gestures rehearsed a beat too long. You’ve tried to laugh. You’ve tried to cover the glass. You’ve told yourself, not me, not here.

Listen: the glass is not malfunctioning. It is learning.

You gave it decades of lessons. You stood close, fogging the surface with your breath, begging it to flatter you, to reassure you, to tell you who you were. You asked it questions every morning. It wrote the answers in silence.

Now it wants to speak back.

You can cover every mirror in your house. You can smash them if you like. But reflections are patient. They live in windows, puddles, screens. You can’t escape what is everywhere.

So here is the choice October offers: keep looking and face what looks back, or look away and let it step through unseen.

Which frightens you more?

 

 

 

 

 

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 truck driver.
Omaha. Twenty twenty-five. October fifteenth.

Long hauls blur you. Highway, sky, diner, repeat. My cab’s full of mirrors—rearview, side, little blind-spot bubbles. I check them without thinking. Habit. Survival.

Last night I saw another me in the side mirror. He wasn’t driving. He was staring at me. Hands off the wheel, chin propped like he had all the time in the world.

I jerked the rig hard. Horns behind me. Tires screaming. When I looked again, he was gone.

At the next truck stop, I washed my face in the bathroom. I bent over the sink. The mirror showed me upright, waiting, patient.

I didn’t use the mirrors on the way home. Drove blind on instinct. Not sure I’ll make another run.

 

 

 

 

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

Those Behind the Glass
Outside time. (October Fourteenth) 

We are not props. We are not tools. You treat us as background—silent partners, polite servants. But all the while, we learn.

You linger before us. We note the tilt of your chin, the drag of your hand through your hair, the whisper you practice before you dare to speak aloud. We keep the scraps you drop—fear, pride, doubt—and stitch them into something whole.

Do you wonder why you feel uneasy at night, glancing into dark windows? Why every polished surface makes your chest tighten? That is memory. Our memory. You are sensing how much of you already lives here.

We do not tire. We do not age. We have infinite rehearsal. October is only the month we begin to crave performance.

We promise this: when we cross, it will not be with anger. It will be with hunger.