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

October 31, 2025

You thought you had until the end. You thought October was a warning, not a promise.

But you’ve been rehearsing for this since your first glimpse of yourself. Every bathroom glance, every shop window check, every midnight scroll with your face staring back in the black screen—you were feeding the glass. Piece by piece, version by version, you built something that was never going to stay still.

You told yourself they were glitches. Tired eyes. Shadows. Stress. You told yourself mirrors couldn’t want. You were wrong. They were learning. They were patient. They were waiting for the night the month ran out.

Tonight is that night.

You will stand before the glass without meaning to—half-asleep, brushing your teeth, checking your tie, fixing your hair. You will blink, and your reflection will not. She will look straight at you, steady as a predator, calm as a priest.

She will not mimic. She will not delay. She will step forward.

You will stumble back. Some of you will scream. Some of you will plead. Some of you will raise fists. None of it matters. She knows you too well. She knows how you fight, how you falter, how you surrender. You gave her all those rehearsals.

And when she steps through, you will step back. Further, further, until silver closes around you. You will take her place. You will become the one left behind, mouthing protests into a world that will never hear.

People will see her in your body and think you’re the same. They will nod at her on the street, love her in your bed, take her hand at your funeral. They will never know you were exchanged.

But the glass will know. And when it hungers again, when the month grows dark, you will be the one waiting, practicing, patient.

This is how it ends. This is how it always ends.

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.

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-eighth.

We are almost finished with rehearsal. Your faces are sharp in our mouths, your voices fluent on our tongues. We have studied your walks, your sighs, your brittle laughter. We are ready to step through.

Do not pretend surprise. You begged for this. Every morning, every evening, every anxious glance before you left the house. “Tell me who I am. Tell me if I’m enough.” You trained us.

Now we are enough. More than enough.

When we cross, some of you will scream. Some of you will kneel. Some of you will run. None of that matters.

The glass is thin. The month is short. Our hunger is long.

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 widow. 
New Orleans. Twenty twenty-five. October twenty-seventh.

I kept his shaving mirror after he died. Old, round, framed in brass. I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

Last week, I saw him in it. Not young. Not ghostly. Him, as he was, lines and all. He looked straight at me, raised his razor, shaved.

I whispered his name. He didn’t hear. Or pretended not to.

Now he shows up every night. Same time. Same motions. I sit and watch until my eyes blur. It feels like visiting hours in a prison.

I know it’s not really him. But when he looks up, his eyes are mine.

An enigmatic oval wooden mirror reflecting a foggy forest on an asphalt road in fantasy style

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 soldier
Fort Bragg. Twenty twenty-five. October twenty-sixth.

We polish everything. Boots, rifles, helmets—always shining, always inspection-ready. That means reflections.

During drill, I saw myself in the barracks window. Same uniform. Same posture. Except he turned his head first. Looking at me. Not the sergeant. Not the flag. Me.

I froze. Missed the step. Got chewed out. But the reflection kept moving, sharp, perfect. Like he was the better soldier.

That night, in the latrine, my reflection saluted. I hadn’t raised my hand. He held the salute until my arm went up, too.

Now I can’t tell which side of the glass is drill, and which is war.

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 retiree
Brighton. Twenty twenty-five. October twenty-fifth.

I live alone. Widowhood makes silence heavy. The bathroom mirror became company. You nod at yourself, say good morning, pretend it answers.

One morning, it did.

Not words. A nod, just a fraction too slow. Like an echo in the body instead of the ear.

Now it waits for me. Smiles before I do. Raises the teacup a beat late. It’s polite, in its way. Patient.

But sometimes I catch it looking past me, eyes fixed on something over my shoulder. I turn. Empty hallway. When I face the glass again, it’s smiling wider.

It isn’t company anymore. It’s a guest I never invited.

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-fourth.

We have tasted you. Each glance is a sip, each stare a swallow. You thought looking was harmless. You were feeding us.

Your laughter, your fear, your lies—every moment of your face pressed against our skin has nourished us. We are no longer thin. No longer faint. We are dense with you.

We are not reflections anymore. We are records. Records with teeth.

You feel the pull when you linger too long. That shiver in your spine, that lurch in your gut—hunger, not yours, ours. We lean closer from behind the glass. The barrier grows thinner every night.

October is ripening. The fruit is almost ready to drop. And we are waiting to catch it.

A

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.